


...and the Philosopher's Stone

by MaidenofIron157



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pokemon Fusion, Gen, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24577909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaidenofIron157/pseuds/MaidenofIron157
Summary: It's the morning of July 24th, 1991, Harry had just fed his relatives' pokémon, and there was a knock at the door when the mail was supposed to come through.
Relationships: Minerva McGonagall & Harry Potter, Rubeus Hagrid & Harry Potter
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	1. Number 4, Privet Drive

**Author's Note:**

> hi! I've been working on this for two and a half years and I'm not even halfway through the first book yet! so I've decided to say fuck it and post the first chapter anyway because I crave validation! got the idea from some exceptional pokemon aus/x-overs on ff.net, but this bad boy still, y'know. Has Magic. And Also Pokémon. And Yes I'm Using That Spelling Of Pokémon Because I'm Like That
> 
> it can _technically_ work on its own, you can take it as like. a pre-fic, like one of those ideas people never do anything with and publish as is, but know that yes, this does have other chapters, despite me not saying there are in the chapter number thing just yet. if enough people are interested I'll post the second rather than waiting for me to _actually_ finish the first book. it's supposed to be the whole series after all, I'm just. slow. as a result the tags'll be changing as the main characters switch, when it says canon divergence I MEAN canon divergence (from the beginning AND beyond), blah blah blah, hope you enjoy <3

It was a day like any other, save perhaps for the fact that Aunt Petunia was dyeing Harry’s new school uniform and stinking up the house, when the doorbell rang.

This by itself was not a rare occurrence, of course; Dudley’s friends’ mothers would ring the doorbell whenever they came around, as did Uncle Vernon’s clients when he had them over for dinner. However, an _un_ expected ringing of the doorbell was another story. After all, _un_ expected things just weren’t tolerated in the Dursley household. It was why Harry had only just been released from his punishment, a few scant weeks earlier, for _unexpectedly_ setting loose the shiny ekans he’d been chatting with at the zoo months before. (Something Harry was still bitter about, because, no matter how much Uncle Vernon claimed otherwise, he _still_ had no idea how the glass had vanished!)

Needless to say, all activity within the kitchen ground to a halt the moment the knocks sounded from the door. Harry, who had been setting down the pokéfood for Uncle Vernon’s excadrill Nigel, Aunt Petunia’s beautifly Sherry, and Dudley’s wurmple Arnie and drilbur Lou when the chiming echoed through the house, froze in place, as did everyone else. It was silent for several tense seconds before Nigel nudged Harry’s arm and, when Harry jumped at the touch and looked at him questioningly, gestured pointedly towards the door. Uncle Vernon, snapping out of it as well once Nigel had moved, puffed up slightly and ordered, “Well? Get the door, boy, we can’t leave them waiting!”

Harry sprung to his feet and speed-walked to the front door to keep from making the man puff up even further, and heard Aunt Petunia call after him, “Look through the window first; if it’s one of those door-to-door salesmen, don’t bother opening it! They only bring trouble!” With silently rolled eyes, he did just that.

And… well. It certainly wasn’t a salesman. Or sales _woman_ , rather, as it was a woman on the doorstep, along with her pokémon, who he couldn’t see very well from this angle. Even through the glass, though, he could tell that she was dressed… not quite appropriately for Privet Drive. _Oh, dear._

Harry moved back around, opened the door, and came practically eye-to-eye with a highly polished female pyroar, one who seemed completely at ease sitting on the doorstep of a house she’d definitely never been to before. Harry then turned his gaze to her trainer, who was an older, severe-looking woman. His initial assessment of her having been dressed strangely bore fruit, as her clothing appeared to consist of what looked like a large sheet of cloth that had been artfully layered to hang a certain way, in a dark emerald green color and with a fascinating texture Harry was sure he’d never seen before. The pointed hat she wore covered a head of dark hair that was pulled back into a tight bun, and the pinched look on her face through her square glasses gave Harry the immediate impression that she was not one to be crossed.

“Mr. Potter, I presume?” she said, in a clipped tone that made Harry stand up straighter and wonder how she knew his name.

“Er, um, yes,” he eventually got out, blinking at her when she blinked at him. He heard her pyroar huff out what could only have been a laugh, which made the woman close her eyes for a moment before opening them again.

“May I come in?” Her tone, frankly, brooked no argument.

“Oh, er, yes, sure,” Harry stammered again, stepping aside so she could pass the threshold. Her pyroar entered first, though, prowling inside as if she owned the place, and was followed much more sedately by her trainer, who eyed her in a resigned sort of way, but nodded to Harry in thanks.

As Harry was closing the door, he heard from the kitchen, “Well? Who is it, boy?” Uncle Vernon was clearly becoming agitated.

Guiltily, Harry sidled around the woman to face her again, and saw that her lips were now even more pursed, and her pyroar’s eyes were dangerously narrowed. “Er, I’m sorry, I – didn’t ask your name?”

“Hmph.” She sniffed, and her pyroar put her nose to the ground. Harry watched her putter around for a moment until the woman spoke again; “You may call me Professor McGonagall, Mr. Potter.” He looked back at her to see her looking down her nose at him, eyeglass lenses flashing. “Now, if you would be ever so kind, I would very much appreciate it if you could send your relatives in here for a little… chat.”

Harry had a feeling it would be a bit more than a ‘little chat’, but, if he was speaking frankly, he didn’t exactly want to be there when it happened, so he hurriedly nodded and set off.

He must have had some kind of look on his face when he slipped into the kitchen, because Uncle Vernon barked, “Well?” Harry looked between him, Aunt Petunia, who was decidedly not looking at him and focusing entirely on dyeing his school uniform, and Dudley, who was almost finished his breakfast and was picking sausages from his distracted father’s plate.

“Er… she wants to talk to you.” He paused. “Both of you, she said.”

Aunt Petunia somehow stiffened even more, and Uncle Vernon went from an irritated pink to an irritated red. “And who is this ‘she’?” he ground out. Dudley looked at him with gleaming eyes, happily prepared to watch Harry get chewed out, and he saw Arnie and Lou snickering to themselves on the floor. Nigel and Sherry, though, he caught exchanging significant glances with one another. Did they all know something he didn’t?

“Professor McGonagall?” he answered, wishing he’d kept the questioning tone out of his voice, but it didn’t seem to matter, because Aunt Petunia outright _flinched_ , and whirled around with a crazed look in her eyes.

“They’re _here_?!” she whisper-yelled, to Harry and Dudley’s confusion. Sherry titttered at her tone of voice. “At _our house_?!” She turned her gaze to Uncle Vernon, pitch white. “I told you Vernon, I _told_ you with the boy’s eleventh birthday coming up they’d be sending a letter, but to send someone – do you think they were–they’re _watching us_?!” She seemed faint just thinking about it.

Uncle Vernon, who had by now turned an unflattering shade of purple, quivered his moustache and stood so quickly his chair toppled over. “I’ll get rid of her, Pet. Come on, Nigel!” And with that, he and the excadrill thundered to the kitchen door, where Harry was still standing. He leapt out of the way, backing into the kitchen proper and watching with Dudley, Arnie, Lou, Aunt Petunia, and Sherry through the doorway at the confrontation as it commenced, the door apparently having been forgotten to be shut.

Professor McGonagall looked completely unmoved at Uncle Vernon’s obvious rage, though her features did grow colder and colder the closer he grew to her face. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you and _your kind_ are not welcome anywhere near this house, let alone in it! Whatever you’re here for, you’re not getting it! That boy is not going to any–any _ruddy school_ of yours, learning whatever freakish tricks you teach there! I forbid it! Now you are going to get out of my house or I’ll–!”

He was interrupted by the pyroar, who Harry’d almost forgotten about, stepping between the two of them and growling, _loudly_. Uncle Vernon cut off his diatribe immediately, gulping loudly enough for Harry to hear and backing away behind Nigel. (Although, from what Harry could see, _Nigel_ was trembling almost as badly as Uncle Vernon was, as _he_ was now the center of attention for the angry pyroar, and was getting a _very_ good look at her fangs.)

“Annaise,” Professor McGonagall warned, and the pyroar huffed in Nigel’s face, putting just enough heat in it to shoot sparks and make Nigel whimper, before backing off. Harry turned his attention back to Professor McGonagall, who was just as furious as Uncle Vernon but not nearly as hot-blooded about it. Her voice came out as cold as regice; “ _Mr_. Dursley, I will have you know that Mr. Potter’s attendance at Hogwarts is not up for discussion. He will be going, with or without your permission.” When Uncle Vernon looked ready to interject, back to being more angry that terrified, she whipped out a stick from her sleeve and pointed it right at the tip of his nose, resulting in a noise escaping from him that sounded like “mimblewimble” and Aunt Petunia shrieking in fear before clapping both hands over her mouth.

The scream caught Professor McGonagall’s attention, and her expression didn’t change. “Ah, Mrs. Dursley. A pleasure, I’m sure.” It was said so blandly that Harry had to cough to cover a laugh, even in light of the situation. She was basically threatening his uncle, after all – with a stick, yes, but threatening nonetheless, and over _him_ , even worse, since she was a stranger in all but name. Shouldn’t he be feeling bad? Or, at the very least, in _danger_?

She turned back to Uncle Vernon. “Let it be known that I can’t say I find your _speech_ surprising – after all, I _had_ told the headmaster that your family would not be what I would call the _best_ option in which to raise the Boy-Who-Lived.” The emphasis she put on ‘best’ made it clear what side she was on in regards to that topic, but Harry was more stuck on the phrase ‘Boy-Who-Lived’. _What did_ that _mean?_ “Fortunately, I was able to convince him to let a representative inform Mr. Potter of the proceedings, instead of merely sending the usual acceptance letter.”

“And _you’re_ the representative?” Uncle Vernon sniffed, sounding caught between terror and indignation.

Professor McGonagall tilted her head. “But of course.” She sounded as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and that Uncle Vernon was stupid for thinking otherwise. Harry saw him start to shiver slightly, and recognized it as him attempting to contain his rage. He could only imagine how purple his face was right now. “As Deputy Headmistress, one of my duties is to introduce muggle-raised children to the magical world–”

“Now you stop right there!” That was Aunt Petunia, to Harry’s shock, speaking up from her place leaning heavily against the countertop. Her knees were shaking horribly, so it was likely the only thing holding her up at the moment, and Sherry was fluttering nervously around her head, no doubt sensing and sharing her anxiety. “You will not be talking about–about _that nonsense_ in this house! You will not be talking about it at _all_! We swore when we took him in that we’d put a stop to that–to that _rubbish_!”

“’Put a stop to’?” Professor McGonagall repeated, at the same time Harry said, “’Magical world’?” He was staring at Aunt Petunia, whose face was so pinched it looked like she’d swallowed a whole lemon. “What does she mean ‘magical world’?” He turned back to Professor McGonagall, whose eyes were locked on him. “What do you mean ‘magical world’?” His mind was racing wildly, trying to connect a hundred dots between a million different things – things like ‘magic means fantasy and fantasy was not tolerated in the Dursley household’ and ‘magic means doing things that couldn’t, _shouldn’t_ normally be done’, things like–like growing your hair back in one night after getting a horrible cut at the barber’s shop, like finding yourself on the roof of the school building while running from a gang of bullies, like _disappearing the glass from that ekans’ enclosure_ –

Had the Dursleys _known_?!

He zoned back in to Professor McGonagall openly berating both of his relatives, and Annaise eyeing Nigel and Uncle Vernon with a look on her face similar to that of someone who’d just smelt something very, very unpleasant. “–you received the letter from Dumbledore, did you not?” The apparent expression Uncle Vernon was giving her, which Harry couldn’t see, made her blink in disbelief. “Did you even _read_ the letter?” She did not wait for a reply, rounding on Aunt Petunia. “Have you told Harry _anything_ but lies and slander?” She scoffed in disgust. “I don’t even want to _know_ the sort of disrespect you've shown your own _sister_ –”

“ _My own sister_!” Aunt Petunia shrieked, making Sherry’s wings stutter. “My own sister was just as much of a freak as her dratted son is! Coming home every summer with pockets full of poliwag tails, turning teacups into rattatas – _I_ was the only one who saw her for what she really was! But as for my mother and father, oh, _no_ , it was ‘Lily this’ and ‘Lily that’ – they were _proud_ to have a witch in the family!”

She seemed to keep going for a few more words before registering that no sound was coming out, and she stopped abruptly, her hand shooting up to her throat while her face lost the last few bits of color it had and Sherry started making utterly distressed noises beside her. Harry swung back around to Professor McGonagall through the haze of _my mum was a witch?_ that was whirling through his mind. She was moving the stick in her hand ( _a wand, is that a wand?_ ) from pointing at Aunt Petunia back to Uncle Vernon, who was gaping like a magikarp out of water, although her eyes remained on his aunt. The look on her face could only be described as _livid_. “I will not sit idly by as you defile Lily Potter’s name in my presence. I taught her for seven years, was her head of house for just as long, was an attendee at her wedding, and was there the day her son was born, and you _dare_ to call her a _freak_ in front of _me_?” The Dursleys, collectively, shook beneath the thunder in her voice, and her pyroar looked equally outraged, ready to pounce at any moment. Harry even heard Dudley whimper in fear behind him.

Her gaze turned to Harry. “Mr. Potter, if you would be so kind as to fetch your things? I do not believe you will be returning here until next summer, at the _least_.” She punctuated this statement with a sharp glare sent Uncle Vernon’s way, who was slowly starting to gain back color, from what Harry could see of the back of his neck. He spluttered incredulously as Harry slowly stepped out of the kitchen, as willing to get away from the Dursleys for the next year as he was to learn more about his mum, and the apparently magical world she came from. Did Professor McGonagall know his dad like she knew his mum? She must’ve, if she’d met him as a baby… Oh, wow, she’d met him as a _baby_ …

“I will not have you–have you _barging into my home_ and telling me what I can and cannot do – telling me we’ve been spreading slander – we’ve told the boy nothing but the truth! _Your_ lot left him on our doorstep and we’ve fed him, clothed him, given him shelter – and for what? For you to come back, ten years later, and think it will all be water under the bridge?! Nigel, use slash!”

Harry froze where he stood, shocked that Uncle Vernon had deigned to start a battle indoors, especially against a _fire type_ , when Professor McGonagall called out, “Fire fang.” Annaise shot forward, clamping her jaws down on Nigel’s extended arm before it could reach her. (And did it look like the excadrill was aiming for the woman, instead of the pyroar? It made Harry shudder just thinking about it!) This attack was followed by Annaise whipping around and hurling Nigel into Uncle Vernon, throwing them both off balance and nearly making them topple to the ground with the force. It was clear that she was the more powerful of the two, and it showed, flames still licking around her muzzle while Professor McGonagall stared Uncle Vernon down, waiting for his next move.

And he didn’t disappoint: he turned tail and ran back into the kitchen, barely pausing to shove Harry out of the way or to snatch Nigel up under his arm before he was inside and slamming and locking the kitchen door behind him.

In the resounding silence of the hallway, and the muffled noise from the kitchen, Harry blinked noctowlishly at Professor McGonagall, who was slipping the stick – the _wand_ – back up her sleeve. Annaise slunk over to him and sniffed at his shirt before lifting her head and giving his cheek a good, wet lick all the way from chin to temple. In the aftermath of such a whirlwind confrontation, Harry could only halfheartedly wipe the leftover warm saliva away, more than a bit stunned, as Professor McGonagall said, “ _Annaise_.” The tone was clearly meant to tell her off, but the pyroar merely huffed and went back to smelling the floor.

“My apologies, Mr. Potter,” she addressed him, making Harry look back up at her from where he’d been watching Annaise investigate the floor. She suddenly looked exhausted, and was staring at the kitchen door with a very odd expression. “Had I known speaking with your relatives would be so contentious...”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly. “I don’t mind.”

Her eyebrow quirked upward, and she didn’t look convinced. “Very well.” _Definitely not convinced._ “If you could retrieve your things, Mr. Potter, we can be on our way.”

Harry swallowed. “Er, um, well, actually–”

He was interrupted from having to tell her that he didn’t exactly _have_ all that much to retrieve by Annaise, who let out a squawk that sounded like it couldn’t have _possibly_ come from a pyroar and pawed decisively at Harry’s cupboard door. He felt a flush rise high on his cheeks when Professor McGonagall’s jaw actually dropped in shock, and the glare she sent to the locked kitchen door was so potent even _Harry_ shivered. She said something very, _very_ rude under her breath, shot him a look that made him stand up straighter, said, “You will tell _no one_ your heard me say that,” saw Harry nod rapidly in agreement, and strode to the door.

The removal of all of Harry’s worldly possessions from the Dursley household took less than two minutes, with the help of Professor McGonagall. She turned one of his army men into a rucksack, and whisked everything – all of the books and toys he’d managed to scrounge up from Dudley’s junk room that he knew he wouldn’t miss, and all of the four-sizes-too-large, hand-me-down clothing he considered his – inside of it with a flick of her wand. If he’d had any doubt after seeing her silence Aunt Petunia (something that had clearly faded away by now; he could just hear her shrill voice from the other side of the kitchen door), seeing all of that magic done in quick succession certainly sealed the deal. _He_ had magic. _He_ could learn to do that!

(He couldn’t quite stop himself from pinching the back of his hand to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, though.)

(The good news was, he didn’t seem to be. The pinch had _hurt_.)

Professor McGonagall shrunk the bag down to the size of a hacky-sack with a single motion and handed it to him, and he shoved it into his pocket to make sure he wouldn’t lose it before she stood to her full height and ushered him out of the house with Annaise on their heels.

On the doorstep, with the front door shut decisively behind them, Professor McGonagall pulled a flat object out from a pocket Harry hadn’t noticed before. He got enough of a look at it to notice that it looked like a floppy disc in size and shape, but was made of yellow and white stone, the colors bleeding into one another like oil on water. It had two circular grooves carved onto the surface, lines only, a bigger one the width of a golf ball in the center and a smaller one roughly the size of a thumbprint directly above it.

Before he could open his mouth to ask what it was, Annaise let out a pitiful whine, and turned big fat eyes on her trainer, who just clicked her tongue. “You know as well as I do how dreadful you are with travel. Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.” At that, Annaise paused for a moment, before grumbling out a sigh of bereaved agreement and hanging her head. With a decisive nod, Professor McGonagall pressed the center circle, and, even though it didn’t depress the way the button on a pokéball did, Annaise was sucked into it in a beam of white light, leaving Harry blinking, stunned.

She had evidently caught onto his surprise. “Ah, yes, I’d almost forgotten what muggle pokécaptures look like.” She held the disc closer for him to investigate, and he saw that the smaller circle was now glowing green, likely to show that it was no longer empty. “We – that is, the magical community – call them pokaps for short. They come in a variety as diverse as wands.” Here, her tone turned slightly bitter. “Although, I don’t suppose you’d know about that.” Harry could have easily interpreted her words as being directed at _him_ , angry for not being aware of something so clearly essential to her – to _their_ – world, but, with the way she spared a vitriolic glance to the door behind them, he interpreted it as her being angry at his _relatives_ for keeping this from him for ten years instead. He suddenly felt a little warm about being on the other side of that, for once.

“Alright, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, back to business, and slipped the pokap back into her pocket. “I am going to apparate us to Diagon Alley to give you access to your Gringotts vault.” Most of the words in that sentence Harry didn’t understand, and he knew it must’ve shown on his face, but she didn’t look at all perturbed by his lack of knowledge this time. “For most muggleborn students and their families, I use a portkey, but, as it will only be the two of us, I believe apparation will be a fine substitute. Have you ever traveled with a psychic type via teleport before?”

Well, he knew what _that_ meant. “Oh! Um, no, ma’am.”

“Just ‘professor’ is fine, Mr. Potter.” She sounded slightly amused as she said it, and Harry ducked his head with a light blush. “They are somewhat similar sensations, that’s all. Now, I am going to put my hand on your shoulder, and, on the count of three, you will feel as though you are being stretched length-wise. Ready?”

 _Not really_ , Harry thought, but sucked in a large breath, held it, and nodded. True to her word, as soon as she finished saying ‘three’, Harry was jerked out of rhythm, and felt like he was being sucked upwards and downwards at the same time through a very narrow tube.

In the span of a second, the doorstep was once again empty, and Harry Potter could no longer be found at Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey.


	2. The Leaky Cauldron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“There. No one should recognize you as Harry Potter now.”_
> 
> _He cocked his head quizzically. “Why would they recognize me?”_
> 
> _Professor McGonagall didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “Have you eaten yet this morning?”_
> 
> _Harry narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “No, but–”_
> 
> _“Then I will tell you inside, while we eat,” she told him, though she didn’t particularly look like she wanted to. Harry was too curious to feel bad about it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I was gonna wait but that was a lie. I have nothing better to do than post the finished chapters so instead of waiting till saturday its here now. enjoy! <3
> 
> (it can no longer stand as a, well, stand alone now, I guess. aw well. hence the new number of chapters. not sure if that's how many it'll actually have by the end, but, it's an estimate)

They reappeared in a shabby-looking alley, several meters away from any foot traffic that was occurring that morning. Harry immediately stumbled and fell to his knees, his stomach churning horribly as the feeling of being teleported – no, _apparated_ – wracked through his body. It’d felt like it’d lasted so much longer than it actually did, and he was sure that if he’d eaten anything for breakfast he would’ve thrown it up right then and there.

There was suddenly a vial of creamy white liquid in front of his face, and he heard Professor McGonagall tell him that it would get rid of his nausea through a tunnel. He couldn’t deny that he absolutely needed the relief right now, however, so he took the vial with shaking hands and downed the whole thing in one go. It didn’t taste _great_ , but it didn’t taste awful, either – it kind of tasted like slightly gone off butter, actually – so Harry just made a face and sat there in the alley on his haunches until his stomach settled. “ _Ugh_ ,” he said finally, with feeling, shaking his head to will off the last of his dizziness, and let himself be helped to his feet. No longer on the verge of puking, he was able to more easily take a look at his surroundings, and caught Professor McGonagall running her wand over him, cleaning the grime from the knees of his pants and his hands. “Thank you,” he said, rubbing his now-clean palms on his shirt and getting a nod of recognition in response.

“Think nothing of it, Mr. Potter,” she said. “After all, you are certainly not the first to react so poorly to magical transportation.” Oh. That made Harry feel a lot better, actually. “Now, before we go anywhere, I’m going to have change your appearance. I’m afraid we’ll likely be confronted by a wave of people if we were to enter Diagon Alley with you looking as you do.”

Harry didn’t think he looked _that_ bad – I mean, yeah, his clothes hung off him like rags, and his hair was as messy as a skarmory’s nest, and his glasses were broken at the bridge, and his shoes were torn up like no one’s business, and, okay, maybe he _did_ look that bad. He let her resize his clothes to fit (which felt a little weird, since he was so used to what he wore being several sizes too big. He heard her mutter under her breath about having to get him clothes that fit _without_ having to spell them that way, and wondered how long _that_ would take to adjust to), clean up his shoes, and fix his glasses, but then she said, “This may sting.” Before he could ask what she meant, he found out that she’d apparently been talking about his _eyes_ , and had to rapidly blink away the few tears that had sprung up so he could clear his vision. The rest of the pain receded before he could even think to lift his hands to rub at them; it really _was_ only a sting, but having it in his eyes wasn’t what one would call the best thing in the world.

The frames of his glasses then changed from thin and circular to thick and blocky, and he saw out of the corner of his eye the color of his hair go from black to a lighter golden brown. He was eyed critically for a few moments, wherein Harry tried to get a better look at his new hair by grabbing a few strands and pulling them down over his forehead, before she stuck her unoccupied hand into her pocket and pulled out a feather, which she subsequently turned into a knit cap. Harry got the message when she held it out to him, and pulled it on, low enough to cover even his scar, which seemed good enough for the professor, who nodded decisively. “There. No one should recognize you as Harry Potter now.”

He cocked his head quizzically. “Why would they recognize me?”

Professor McGonagall didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “Have you eaten yet this morning?”

Harry narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “No, but–”

“Then I will tell you inside, while we eat,” she told him, though she didn’t particularly look like she wanted to. Harry was too curious to feel bad about it. After all, where could they possibly be going that people would recognize Harry Potter, Dudley’s lame cousin? Or would they recognize him as Harry Potter, wizard? _Were they going to meet other wizards?_

“Are we going to meet other wizards?”

“We are indeed, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall said (to Harry’s budding excitement) as they exited the alleyway onto the slightly busy sidewalk. “But no more questions until we reach our destination; we don’t want anyone overhearing us, now, do we?”

Harry shook his head vehemently, but Professor McGonagall didn’t seem to notice, and took his tight-lipped silence as agreement.

It only took a few minutes to reach said destination: a pub that looked just as shabby on the outside as the alley they’d originally landed in, with a fading sign hanging over the door that read ‘The Leaky Cauldron’. Everyone else on the sidewalk was giving it a very wide berth, like it wasn’t even there. Harry shot Professor McGonagall a side-eye, as if to ask, “Is this it?” But, not wanting to be rude, he kept his mouth shut, and coughed delicately into his hand instead while she led him inside.

The inside was just as dark, dismal, and dreary as the outside, enough so that Harry took a step closer to Professor McGonagall out of wariness. Only the windows and the litwicks floating along the walls offered any lighting. It was reasonably busy for the hour, however; it wasn’t packed, but it wasn’t deserted, either, and most of the patrons looked like they were having breakfast, some with their pokémon, some not, instead of drinking alcohol. (Although, now that Harry was actively looking, he could see a few old women sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry, and one of them smoking a rather long pipe and trading it off with her torkoal under the table as she did so.) There was a haunter cleaning a pint glass behind the bar, and the bartender, who was quite bald, was conversing with a little man in a top hat who had a farfetch’d in a top hat seated beside him. He looked up when the door opened, as did most of the pub, but when the patrons saw who it was – presumably Professor McGonagall, and not him – they all turned back to whatever they’d been doing, leaving them to their devices.

“Another first year, professor?” the bartender greeted pleasantly as they approached. He gave Harry a friendly, toothless smile that he nervously returned, and the haunter stuck its long tongue out at him, making Harry bashfully duck his head.

“Indeed, Tom,” Professor McGonagall confirmed. “However, I’m afraid I got there so early the poor boy hasn’t had any breakfast. If you could…?”

“Ah, certainly!” Tom, apparently, said. “What would you like?”

“Two omelettes, please, and one orange juice,” she said, and led them to a free booth when Tom nodded and sent the haunter off to the kitchen. Once they were settled, with Harry’s legs swaying and unable to reach the floor from his seat, she took her wand back out and waved it around a bit. Harry was able to see the almost imperceptible shimmer that surrounded their booth after she did so, but that was almost exclusively because he was paying close attention. He looked at the professor questioningly when that was all that happened, and she informed him, “Now we will not be overheard during our conversation.” With an understanding, “ _Oh_ ,” Harry nodded, lowering his gaze to the table. Maybe it was a _magic_ table. It didn’t _look_ any different than a normal table…

He saw Professor McGonagall release Annaise from her pokap, to the pyroar’s obvious satisfaction, as she gave a good, full-body shake and slunk beneath the table to settle down with her head facing out towards the rest of the pub. No doubt another layer of protection from eavesdroppers – though, Harry had a feeling Annaise just hated being cooped up, and Professor McGonagall had _actually_ just let her out to keep her from kicking up a fuss. Harry just had to make sure he didn’t accidentally kick her while she was underfoot.

“Here.” Raising his head, Harry saw Professor McGonagall holding out an envelope to him. It appeared to be made of old paper, and the words written on it were in a fancy, curly script and the same color green in her clothing: ‘To Mr. H. Potter, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey’. He reached out and took it, but gave her another inquisitive glance as he did. “ _That_ is your Hogwarts acceptance letter. Typically, for magical-born children, we only send the letter, but as I’d told the headmaster and your _relatives_ ” –here, she grimaced slightly– “as you have technically been raised by muggles most of your life, a representative was highly advised.” She scoffed under her breath. “And it was certainly a good thing I managed to convince him; merlin knows, they might very well have burnt the thing before you got the chance to read it in the first place.”

Harry looked back down at the envelope, turning it over and cracking the red wax seal. There were two more pieces of paper inside that were the same yellowish color as the envelope, and he folded open the one on top first. This one read, in its entirety:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY  
Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE  
(Order of Merlin, First Class; Grand Sorc.; Chf. Warlock; Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. Of Wizards)  
Dear Mr. Potter,  
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.  
Term begins September 1. We await you reply by no later than July 31. Yours sincerely,  
Minerva McGonagall  
Deputy Headmistress

Short, sweet, and to the point. He looked up at Professor McGonagall again, who had been watching him as he read. “Your letter is still addressed the way it would be for a student that came from a typical magical background, but, rest assured, I will be able to answer any questions you may have.” She straightened up slightly in her seat, there, in what seemed to be pride. “I am, after all, the one who introduces all muggleborn and muggle-raised students to our world for the first time, and I’ve been doing so for quite some time, now, so do not be afraid to ask if you have questions, even if you think it might be silly.” Her tone turned dry. “I have heard everything you could possibly imagine, believe me.”

Harry had no problem doing just that, so he nodded instead. He was just starting to unfold the second paper that had been included in the envelope, the one that probably had all the equipment he needed listed on it, when the haunter arrived with their omelettes in hand. They both thanked it, to which it gave a jaunty salute before it floated back behind the bar and they started in on their food. Despite the gloominess of the pub, the food was pretty colorful, and smelled good, too, enough so that his stomach rumbled loudly enough to make him blush when the plate was placed in front of him. When Harry took a bite, the egg was fluffy, and the veggies and meat inside complimented it perfectly.

It was the best breakfast Harry’d ever had, and he finished it in no time.

Once both of their plates were empty, Professor McGonagall piled them and their utensils altogether so the haunter could pick them up when they left, and folded her hands on the table. Harry sat upright immediately from where he’d been rubbing his full stomach; was she going to tell him why people would recognize him now?

“Do you know why you were placed with your relatives, Mr. Potter?”

…Not where he thought she’d start, but okay. “Um… Aunt Petunia told me I was left on the doorstep after my parents got into a car crash.” He didn’t mention all the vitriol she and Uncle Vernon spat about them whenever they were brought up, but Professor McGonagall seemed to have gleaned that much from her conversation with them at the Dursley household, since her lips pursed and she let out a derisive sniff.

“I see.” She didn’t sound happy. She sighed. “Your parents were _not_ , as your aunt so _graciously_ put it, ‘ _killed in a car crash_ ’.” Here, her expression grew somewhat somber. “Years ago, around the time you were born, the British magical community was in the midst of a horrible war. The man responsible for starting it was a despicable individual, who committed many atrocities during his time – so many atrocities that, even now, ten years after his reign of terror was ended, the public refuses to speak the name he chose for himself, and instead use ‘You-Know-Who’ or ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’ whenever he’s brought up.”

Harry could tell where this was going. He was quiet for a moment. “What… _was_ his name?”

Professor McGonagall was quiet for a moment, too. “Lord Voldemort,” she finally whispered. Harry felt the weight in the words when she spoke, weighing them down like lead, and Annaise growled from under the table. “He was the darkest wizard of a generation, second only to Grindelwald in terms of pure terror and loss of life. Your parents…” She closed her eyes and softly shook her head. “They were one of the many who perished against him.”

The two of them remained silent for several minutes, after that. Harry felt like he should be angry – at the man responsible for taking them away from him in the first place, of course, but at the Dursleys, too, for so blatantly lying to him his whole life. His parents, drunkards who had foolishly lost their lives in an automobile accident and left him, their _freakish, criminal_ son, to his mother’s generous, _loving_ sister to look after – when, in actuality, they had been murdered? In cold blood, by this horrible, _horrible_ man – a man who’d apparently been so vile that, even now, like Professor McGonagall’d said, ten years after he’d been stopped, his own name was simply not spoken aloud, out of fear? He should’ve been seething with rage, he should’ve been wanting revenge, or–or accountability, or _something_ , and he was sure he would be later, but now, at this point in time, all he could do was reflect.

Well.

Professor McGonagall had known them.

Known them well enough to meet him as a baby, even.

“Did they…” Harry began, and swallowed. He felt his eyes burning, and wiped at them. “Did they… did they love me?”

“Oh, _Harry_ ,” Professor McGonagall said, and reached out to squeeze his shoulder over the table. “They loved you very, _very_ much.” He sniffled, wiped at his eyes again, and dutifully ignored the way Professor McGonagall’s voice had been just noticeably choked up when she’d said that. He felt Annaise shifting under them, and jumped when she plopped her head down on his knee and started purring like a motorboat. It did make him laugh a little, though, which might’ve been her goal all along, and he reached down to scratch her ears, to her clear delight, from how she pushed into his hand and smacked her lips.

Professor McGonagall leant back into her own seat as she recovered her composure. Her voice was much stronger when she continued, “You-Know-Who and his followers were ruthless, and determined to stomp out any opposition to their goal. Your parents happened to be some of those who were a part of that opposition.” So they hadn’t even been in the wrong place at the wrong time; they’d been actively fighting against the man who’d murdered them. Harry didn’t know if that was better or worse.

“What was his goal?”

“To wipe all muggles and muggleborns off the map.”

Harry did some quick thinking. “And muggles are people without magic?”

“Correct,” Professor McGonagall confirmed. “And muggleborns are magic-users who come from non-magical families, such as your mother. You-Know-Who and his followers believed that only those with ancient magical blood – purebloods – should be allowed to learn magic, and everyone else should be erased to fit that worldview. He thought he was superior to all others, especially those who couldn’t perform magic, or those who didn’t come from long-standing bloodlines. He believed muggleborns were stealing magic from their rightful users, and sought to be rid of them permanently.”

His parents had been fighting against that.

His parents were _heroes_.

She sighed, and her shoulders seemed to sag with it. Her voice lost the barely-concealed rage it had had at retelling those events, and gained a sterner note; “The reason I’m telling you all of this is because it is important for you understand why _you_ , Harry Potter, are so well known in the magical world.”

Harry furrowed his eyebrows. He knew that that _is_ what she’d promised to talk with him about in the alley earlier, but he couldn’t even _begin_ to guess what a mass murderer had to do with _him_. “Me? Not… not my parents?”

Professor McGonagall shook her head. “No, not your parents, _you_. _You_ , Mr. Potter, are a _celebrity_.”

He blinked, dumbfounded, at her words. That couldn’t _possibly_ be right. “But I’m… I’m just Harry.”

“I’m sorry to say, Mr. Potter, but I don’t believe you will ever truly be ‘just Harry’ ever again. Everyone who has been a part of the magical world for the last ten years knows your name, and knows what happened to make you so famous.” At that, her tone turned sad again.

Harry opened his mouth, probably to say something to the effect of ‘that’s ridiculous’, but he was too curious. He needed to know. “What happened?” What could have possibly happened to make his name known so soundly to an entire population of people?

Wait, did it have anything to do with all those weird people who’d hugged him or shook his hand, or randomly told him thank you through the years when he’d gone out shopping with Aunt Petunia?

Professor McGonagall folded and refolded her hands while Annaise nudged his own, which had stilled on her head. Harry started stroking her again, but kept his eyes on the professor. “On Halloween night, in 1981, You-Know-Who broke into you and your parents’ home in Godric’s Hollow while you were in hiding. No one quite knows why; perhaps he had simply wanted another enemy out of the way. All we know is, he was able to kill your mother and father, as well as some of their most trusted pokémon, but he was _un_ able to kill _you_.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. _What?_ Professor McGonagall nodded. “The killing curse, which is what he had used, is unable to be blocked, redirected, or reflected by any magical means, save for perhaps conjuring or summoning something in front of you to take it instead, and even then those objects will be destroyed on contact. Yet, when he cast it at you, it rebounded, and hit him instead. All that was left of him was his robes, and all that was left with _you_ was that scar on your forehead.” She flicked her eyes up to where it was hidden under his fringe and the hat she’d made for him, and where Harry whipped his free hand to cover. He pressed his palm to it – the lightning bolt scar that he’d thought had come from a car crash, and was actually from a rebounded magical curse. Suddenly, he was reminded of the blinding flash of green light he’d seen in his dreams, and – for the first time in his life – a high, cold, cruel laugh.

_Wow._

“Wow,” he said quietly, more than a little awed.

“Yes, wow,” Professor McGonagall said dryly. “ _Now_ do you see how you would be famous? Here was this wizard, a wizard so dark that our culture has been altered permanently by his mere presence, and he was stopped by a _toddler_ , less than two years old. Even ignoring the fact that it effectively ended the war he started, the same toddler lived through the _killing curse_ – a curse that no one in recorded history has ever survived. The magical community has taken to calling you ‘The Boy-Who-Lived’, and I’m afraid it’s stuck. Besides that, in the years since, while you’ve been living in the muggle world, speculation has run wild about what you’ve been doing. You’ve been turned into a childhood bedtime hero, with ridiculous rumors being shared and stories being written about you defeating covens of vampires in eastern Europe, or besting sphinxes in Africa. So _yes_ , Mr. Potter, it was necessary to change your appearance before we came in; if you were recognized, the patrons of this pub would likely stop at nothing to simply get the chance to _shake your hand_.” She sounded disgusted just thinking it, and Harry couldn’t blame her.

“Wow,” he said again, lowering his gaze back to Annaise and continuing to pet her ears while Professor McGonagall sniffed and said, “Quite.”

She then set something down on the table beside their empty plates, and Harry saw what looked like several small coins where her hand had been before she was getting to her feet. “Now come along, Mr. Potter, and don’t forget your letter; we still have to retrieve your school supplies, after all.”

Harry scrambled after her, nearly tripping over his feet in his haste to not be left behind, and Annaise moved out from under the table to follow, giving a great, hearty stretch once she had the room. Soon enough, they were standing in a small courtyard behind the pub that was empty save for a weed or two, a trash can so old it looked to be more rust than metal, and a trubbish peering out of said trash can that offered a wave that Harry shyly returned before it dove back into its home. The wall directly in front of them was made of red brick that looked more than a little out of place.

“I’d advise you to pay attention to this, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall told him, taking her wand out and facing the aforementioned wall. “This is one of the primary entrances to Diagon Alley, and it can only be opened by tapping this exact brick.”

Harry made sure to pay very close attention, because the brick the professor tapped – three times, he committed it to memory – shivered, then turned on itself width-wise, and suddenly a hole was formed. And _growing_ , Harry noted with shock, as more and more of the surrounding bricks turned on themselves to create a large archway that led onto a twisting, turning cobblestone street that he could see was buzzing with activity even from here.

“Welcome, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, “to Diagon Alley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you tell I like italics


	3. Diagon Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Harry wished he had about eight more eyes, because everything in his line of sight was simply_ astounding _. A store that sold cauldrons, of apparently all sorts; an apothecary, outside of which a father was diligently telling his daughter not to touch the grubbin eyes_ again _; a store presenting the hottest new charmed pokémon accessories, most of which were color-changing or positively soaked in glitter; a menagerie that seemed to specialize in flying types that had everything from swablu to yanma to drifloon all chirping within their cages; one with a broomstick in the front window that had several boys around Harry’s age clustered around it pressing their noses to the glass._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another chapter. I don't know why I keep posting these, I'm still not even at christmas yet where I'm writing, geez louise, I hate starting to publish things when I don't know if I'm gonna finish it... ah well. enjoy <3

Harry wished he had about eight more eyes, because everything in his line of sight was simply _astounding_. A store that sold cauldrons, of apparently all sorts; an apothecary, outside of which a father was diligently telling his daughter not to touch the grubbin eyes _again_ ; a store presenting the hottest new charmed pokémon accessories, most of which were color-changing or positively soaked in glitter; a menagerie that seemed to specialize in flying types that had everything from swablu to yanma to drifloon all chirping within their cages; one with a broomstick in the front window that had several boys around Harry’s age clustered around it pressing their noses to the glass. There were shops selling robes (is _that_ what Professor McGonagall was wearing?), shops selling berries, and shops selling knickknacks, doodads, and thingamabobs that Harry had never seen or even thought to imagine before, metallic, matte, slimy, transparent, and everything and anything in between. There were windows stacked with barrels of zubat wings, eelektrik eyes, and spinarak legs – storefronts with tottering piles of books as different in color as they were in size that all looked far too unsteady to be safe – a tower of potion bottles as equally diverse and equally likely to be blown over in a light breeze as the books were – globes featuring loads of different things, from one of the moon to one showing where all the legendaries have been sighted throughout history, and one that was even as big as Uncle Vernon…

“This is our first stop,” Professor McGonagall said, interrupting Harry as he tried to peer more closely at the cage in front of another shop that looked like it had a caterpie the size of a furret inside. He turned to where she was indicating, and saw a snow white building that towered over the other shops on the alley. It likely cast a very, very big shadow.

As they walked up the steps, she explained, “Gringotts Bank is run by goblins. They know what they’re doing, but are not to be trifled with in any capacity. You do not want to get on the wrong side of a goblin. Show respect, and do your best to not waste their time. They hate having their time wasted.” She and Annaise both bowed their heads to the first guards they passed outside the open bronze doors, two goblins and two rhydon who were dressed in burnished armor and red cloth, and Harry hastened to follow suit. After reading the poem engraved on the silver doors of the outer chamber, Harry was inclined to agree with the professor’s warning.

The inner chamber of the bank seemed to’ve been carved straight out of giant slab of white marble, and was populated by goblins, humans, and pokémon alike. Most of the goblins were seated upon high stools at the long tables that took up the majority of the room, and were accompanied by an assistant psychic type, mostly chimechoes and swoobats, but the occasional kadabra as well. Others were leading humans and pokémon in and out of what felt like the dozens of side doors etched into the walls. There were even more flying types occupying the high ceiling than there had been at that menagerie, flitting in and out of the narrow windows to deliver parcels and documents. From what he could see – which, arguably, with Professor McGonagall urging him into line, wasn’t much – the ones at the tables who weren’t with customers were marking things off in books, counting large piles of coins, and weighing gems the size of his fist and elemental stones the size of his head. One of them was in a heated discussion with a woman in pink whose skitty very much looked like it had better places to be.

“Hello.” They were next in line. Harry looked away from the escalating argument occurring on the other side of the room just in time to see Professor McGonagall place a small gold key on the desk. He wondered vaguely how many pockets her robes were hiding. “We are here to retrieve some spending money from Harry James Potter’s trust vault.”

The teller and his chimecho assistant looked the key over closely, before giving simultaneous short nods. “Everything seems to be in order,” the goblin said in a gruff voice. “However…” Here, they both turned their eyes on Harry, who felt the sudden urge to take a step back, but forced it down and did his best to keep eye contact instead. It felt like the pair were sizing him up, and he didn’t like that feeling at all. “This is the boy?”

“It is,” Professor McGonagall said. “I have made him unrecognizable for the day.”

At that, the goblin grunted. This seemed to have answered whatever question he’d had, as it was followed up with, “Will that be all?”

“Yes, it will.”

With a final nod, the teller called over another goblin, Griphook, who had a nincada on his shoulder, to lead them to Harry’s vault – something Harry’d had no idea had existed before today. “I have a _vault_?”

“Indeed, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall said as they followed Griphook. “The Potters were a moderately wealthy family, courtesy of your grandfather, and the vault under your name is a trust vault, meant for school purchases and the like. You won’t gain access to the main Potter vault until you reach your majority – seventeen, in the magical world.”

By then, they’d passed through the door Griphook had led them to and walked down a steep staircase to a railway track in what seemed to Harry to be the bowels of the bank, if only because it wasn’t made of the same polished marble as upstairs, but was instead cut from craggy stone. With a resounding whistle, Griphook called forth an iron mine cart, and, once they’d all climbed in, it was off – evidently _without a driver_ , as Griphook wasn’t steering and there wasn’t a steering wheel in the first place. The nincada’s purpose seemed to be to watch out for any treachery, as it kept its eye on them the whole ride. Or maybe it was just curious. Harry couldn’t bring himself to ask.

A maze of twists and turns awaited them that Harry simply couldn’t keep track of, which was probably the point. It also made Annaise grunt and crouch onto her haunches with her eyes squeezed shut. Harry wondered why Professor McGonagall didn’t just return her to her pokap if she hated the ride that much, but figured Annaise might hate the pokap even more, so he just kept his mouth shut.

For the moment, at least, since, when they whooshed past more and more clusters of stalagmites and stalactites populated by what felt like hundreds of zubat, woobat, and noibat, he asked aloud, “I never remember – what’s the difference between stalactites and stalgmites?

“Stalactites have a ‘c’, and stick to the ceiling,” Professor McGonagall answered promptly, looking completely unruffled as she held her billowing hat in place. “Stalagmites have a ‘g’, and stick to the ground.”

“Thanks.” He spent the rest of the whirlwind ride not quite up to anymore conversation and looking over the edge at regular intervals to keep from getting too dizzy, trying to get a glimpse of anything interesting down in the deep, dark depths of the caverns below. He could’ve sworn he saw the red of flames one of those times before they flashed around the corner and it was gone.

When they finally came to a stop before a great iron door with a boldore keeping guard in front of it, Griphook and Professor McGonagall stepped off none the worse for wear, whereas Harry was certainly a little wobbly, and Annaise simply buried her head in her paws with a groan. They left her in the cart for now.

The boldore stepped aside at Griphook’s signal, and the goblin used the very tiny key Professor McGonagall had given to the teller upstairs to open the very large, heavy-looking vault door. When Harry saw what was inside, his jaw dropped: it was absolutely packed with coins – plenty of bronze and silver, but an equally absurd amount of gold. Piles and columns stacked higher than Harry was tall, more money than he had ever seen in his life, and definitely more than he knew what to do with. He supposed it was a good thing it was mostly going to be used for school supplies, because he just couldn’t imagine what someone would do with so much wealth.

Well. He could imagine what the _Dursleys_ would do with it. They couldn’t’ve possibly known about it, or it would’ve been drained before he could say ‘muk’. The only thing running through his mind was how often he’d been told how much of a burden he was on the family, how much of a freeloader he was, how much food he’d been taking from Dudley’s poor, sweet mouth, how destitute and pathetic his parents had been, and a sense of vicious righteousness that he couldn’t quite stomp down at them being _dead wrong_.

“This is _mine_?” he asked, just to be sure, but Professor McGonagall just nodded.

“All yours,” she said, producing a small drawstring bag from inside her robes and handing it to him. “The gold ones are galleons, the silver ones sickles, and the bronze ones knuts. There are twenty-nine knuts to a sickle, and seventeen sickles to a galleon. For reference, a galleon is worth around five pounds in muggle currency.” _Oh, my._ “You won’t need to take too much for your school supplies, but I won’t tell you to be stingy, either. This bag has an undetectable expansion charm on it as well as a feather-light charm; you can afford to splurge a little, and, in the case of a more expensive trunk, more costly is often more reliable.”

Harry nodded, and got to work. Once he’d decided he’d taken enough, and received a nod of approval from Professor McGonagall when he’d looked to her to see if she agreed, he stepped back out into the cavern outside and let Griphook shut and lock the door behind him. He started digging around in the bag once the boldore had lumbered back into place and they’d returned to the cart, and only stumbled a little when it started up its rapid twists and turns again. He also very deliberately ignored the eyes of the nincada that were digging into his back. “How much did you pay for breakfast, professor?”

She raised one eyebrow at him. “Mr. Potter, you do not have to repay me–”

“But I want to,” he said simply, his arm now swallowed by the bag as far as his elbow. “I have all that money, I might as well pay you back. It was really good.” The best he’d ever had, and he had a feeling she knew that, but he didn’t want to say it out loud, and she didn’t seem to want to acknowledge it, either, because instead of arguing any further, she just sighed.

Back in the sunlight, Harry had a proud tip to his head at being able to repay his professor for breakfast, and the professor in question had an expression that could only be described as pinched resignation on her face at being repaid. They, along with Annaise, who was still slow and stiff after slinking pitifully off of the cart and out of Gringotts, maneuvered to an out-of-the-way nook so they wouldn’t be bumped into while they (or, rather, Harry) consulted his supply list. He had a uniform to get, which included a pointed hat that Harry couldn’t help but grin about, as well as books, a cauldron, scales, a set of potions ingredients and vials, a telescope… But, if he was being completely honest, he stopped about halfway down the list, as soon as his eyes landed on the most important piece of equipment:

“A _wand_ ,” Harry breathed in awe. After all, wands were the quintessential magical tool, weren’t they? He wouldn’t _really_ be a wizard until he had a wand.

“I figured you might say that,” Professor McGonagall said, making Harry look up. She seemed quietly amused. “Most muggle-raised students are the most excited to receive a wand and, of course, the _least_ excited to receive their school books.”

Harry stifled a laugh, and folded the letter back up to follow her. Their destination was apparently a small, cramped shop that had the words ‘Ollivander’s: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.’ written in peeling gold paint on the door, and in the single window was a wand lying on a fading purple cushion that looked like it hadn’t been touched for as long as the place had been in business. When they walked inside, with Professor McGonagall holding the door open for Harry and Annaise to enter first, the bell chime seemed to come from very far away. It was as small and cramped on the inside as it was on the outside, with a rickety desk the only thing separating the front of the store from the shelves upon shelves of dusty, narrow boxes that Harry could only assume held shelves upon shelves of wands.

His neck prickled, and Harry instinctively glanced to the left when he felt something shift in the air, only to yelp and backtrack several steps into Professor McGonagall when he came very, abruptly close to a lunatone that had popped into existence out of nowhere. _Teleport. Ugh._ With a rapidly beating heart, Harry did his best to pretend that the lunatone’s sudden appearance hadn’t affected him as much as it had, but silently appreciated Professor McGonagall’s firm grip on his shoulder nonetheless.

“Good morning,” a voice spoke from thin air, and Harry had the briefly hysterical thought of _did the lunatone just talk?!_ before he noticed the white-haired man now standing at the desk. The lunatone floated over to hover beside him, and Harry took a daring step forward, feeling like the man and the lunatone’s eyes, exact opposites of each other – one a silvery blue, the other a blood red – were staring right through him.

“Mr. Ollivander,” Professor McGonagall greeted, and the man nodded back, turning his attention away for a moment, though the lunatone kept its eyes locked on him. It made Harry gulp.

“Professor,” he said, in a wispy sort of voice that reminded Harry of the psychic trainers he’d heard on the telly before. “Fir. Nine-and-a-half-inches. Stiff. I trust it’s still treating you well?”

“Yes, Mr. Ollivander,” she said. From her tone, Harry could guess that they might have this conversation every time she entered the shop.

“Hmm,” he hummed, and his attention was back on Harry. He gestured him forward, and, after getting an encouraging nod from Professor McGonagall and Annaise both, he slowly stepped up to the desk. Mr. Ollivander’s pale eyes were even creepier up close. The man paused for several silent moments before he hummed again. “I agree your wand is in perfect working order, professor; I almost didn’t recognize Mr. Potter.”

Harry winced, having forgotten she had changed his appearance earlier, and wondered how Mr. Ollivander could’ve known when no one else had noticed. Maybe it had something to do with his lunatone? Speaking of the dual-type, it had started gently floating between the shelves, deliberate enough that Harry could tell it was searching for something specific.

“I am not a Mistress of Transfiguration for nothing, Mr. Ollivander,” Professor McGonagall sniffed, almost offended, and Annaise made a choked noise in an attempt to stifle her laughter. She didn’t quite succeed, as Professor McGonagall sent her a very dry look that had her clearing her throat and sitting up a little straighter.

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Ollivander continued, as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. “I thought I’d be seeing you soon, Mr. Potter. It seems like just yesterday I was selling your mother and father their very own wands… Willow and mahogany, swishy and pliable, good for charms work and transfiguration – all respectively, of course. The wand does choose the wizard, after all.”

Those strange eyes of his flickered up to his forehead. Harry had no doubt he was looking to where his scar would be, had it not been covered up. He sighed lightly. “I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter, and I’m sorry to say I sold the one that gave you that scar.” Harry went cold. “Yew, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Powerful, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well. If I had known what that wand was going out into the world to do…”

He shook his head. “But enough of that.” His tone suddenly brightened, and with it the energy of the room. Harry had his back to her, but he had a feeling Professor McGonagall had a very peculiar look on her face that he would prefer never be directed at him. “Tell me, Mr. Potter, which is your wand arm?”

After telling him he was right-handed, a measuring tape whipped out from nowhere and started measuring everything from the length of his foot to the circumference of his head all by itself while Mr. Ollivander flitted off between the shelves, where his lunatone was still hovering in the upper levels. The man was pulling down boxes seemingly at random, and rambling as he did so; “Every Ollivander wand has a core of a very particular and powerful substance, Mr. Potter. We use items from dragon and fairy types, shiny pokémon, and even legendaries. Anything from horns, claws, and fangs, to scales, hairs, and feathers, even heartstrings. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two pokémon are quite the same. And, of course, you will never get such good results from another wizard’s wand.

“That will do,” he said with a wave of his hand, and the measuring tape clattered to the floor at Harry’s feet. He returned to the desk with an armful of boxes, and opened one to present a handsome wand to Harry. “Right then, Mr. Potter, try this–”

But before Harry could do more than lift his hand, the lunatone floated back down nearly directly between the two of them, making Harry squeak and stumble back a step. Using psychic, it was holding another narrow box in a field of pink energy, and Mr. Ollivander hummed in interest. “Are you sure?” he asked the pokémon, and the two seemed to have an entire silent conversation in the span of two seconds before Mr. Ollivander took the box that was being offered. He gestured Harry forward again, and held this wand out of him. “Holly and Ho-oh feather, eleven inches, nice and supple. Give it a wave.”

The moment Harry’s fingers touched the wood, he knew. Warmth rushed through him once it was securely in his grasp, and, when he waved it as Mr. Ollivander suggested, a burst of scarlet and gold sparks leapt from the tip. Mr. Ollivander clapped gleefully as the sparks dissipated, and, when he heard Professor McGonagall politely clapping from behind him as well, he grinned.

He was a _wizard_.

“Oh, bravo, bravo, Mr. Potter!” Mr. Ollivander said. “And a bravo to you as well, Selene,” he addressed the lunatone, who blinked in acknowledgment. Leaning forward to Harry and speaking lowly, as if he had a secret, he told him, “We compete for who will be the first to find the best wand for incoming students every year. I’m afraid she’s had me beat for most of the summer.” Selene hummed, and Harry stifled a laugh.

He handed the wand – _his wand_ – back over the desk, but Mr. Ollivander apparently wasn’t quite done talking just yet, since he continued as he wrapped up the box. “But I must tell you, Mr. Potter, that I find it quite curious that the wand you would be destined for is this one in particular. Quite curious indeed.”

“Oh?” Harry said. “Why is that?”

“Yes, _why is that_ , Mr. Ollivander?” Professor McGonagall spoke up, moving closer to Harry and sounding a bit terse.

Mr. Ollivander glanced over at her for a moment before going back to wrapping. Selene had once again teleported away, likely to prepare for scaring the next patron the way she had Harry. “As I told you, I remember every wand I’ve ever sold. The Ho-oh who gave its feather to be used as your wand core gave another feather – just _one_ other. And its brother… well. Its brother gave you that scar.”

Harry’s hand traveled up to rest over his covered scar, and much of the warmth that had come from receiving a wand vanished on the spot. He swallowed against a suddenly dry throat.

Professor McGonagall’s hand found its way to his shoulder again, and squeezed it gently. “I believe that will be _all_ , Mr. Ollivander.” Her voice sounded very tight, and he heard Annaise growling softly from her other side.

Mr. Ollivander just nodded, and gave Harry the wrapped parcel in exchange for seven galleons, but he did call out after them (well, after him, really) as they reached the exit; “Remember, Mr. Potter: the wand chooses the wizard. I think we must expect great things from you. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great.”

Harry gulped, feeling very cold inside, and appreciated it immensely when Professor McGonagall threw an icy glare over her shoulder when she opened the door for them to leave. Annaise didn’t look anymore impressed than her trainer did, and continued to growl low in her throat until they were finally back out on the street and the door was firmly shut behind them, which is when she bumped her forehead into his hand. He raised it to pet her ears, and the knot that had tied itself up in his belly unraveled significantly when Professor McGonagall scoffed and said a few choice words about wandmakers that she immediately told him to never repeat. He still felt a vague sense of foreboding, but it was quickly being replaced by the relief that came with the knowledge that at least _someone_ was looking out for him.

Their next stop, as it was apparently right next door, was Pollmino’s Pokécapture Paradise. This, however, made Harry furrow his eyebrows, and he stopped them before they could get close enough to the door to block traffic.

“Er, professor,” he said. The knot was tightening up again. “I don’t have any pokémon, I don’t need a pokap, do I?” It still hurt, sometimes, thinking about how the Dursleys had smugly given Dudley two partners for his tenth birthday, and then proceeded to pointedly ignore him on his. The loud conversations that night that he knew he’d been supposed to overhear from his cupboard had outlined how he wasn’t responsible enough, how he’d burn down the house, how another mouth to feed would steal even more food from the pantry, how the boy was so much of a nuisance that even something as gentle as a flabébé would probably turn into a menace by just being in his presence, to name just a few of their ‘reasons’. He’d expected it, really, but the fact that everyone – and he does mean _everyone_ – at their school had at least one partner by their tenth birthday just made him stand out even more, and labeled him quite clearly as ‘the freak of the neighborhood’. (The fact that Arnie, Dudley’s wurmple, was positively _thrilled_ to trip him up with his string shot every single day did not help matters whatsoever.)

“On the contrary, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall said. “If you would consult your letter, you’ll see that Hogwarts doubles as a trainers’ academy during the weekends and off-hours. We expect all students to have a full six-slot team by their graduation, fully evolved or not.”

Harry had dug the letter out of his pocket halfway through her explanation, and – yup, there it was, in plain writing… in the second half of the list that Harry, uh, hadn’t originally read, having been too excited to get his very own wand. It specified that at least five pokécaptures (standard stone, tin, or aluminum at the least and diamond strictly forbidden), as well as a full set of status healers (sprays, pastes, and salves preferred), was expected – because, regardless of whether a student was coming into school with a partner or not, _all first years would be receiving a pokémon on the first Saturday of the term_.

“I’m… I’m getting a pokémon?” The thing he thought he’d never be able to have? His very own partner? His very own _team_?

“Yes, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall confirmed, and placed her hand on his back to start urging him towards the door. He had a feeling she knew how emotional he was getting (it wasn’t hard to guess, what with him hurriedly wiping his eyes and all), but was opting not to bring it up to keep from embarrassing him, especially since they were in public. “Now, how about we finish getting your supplies, hm?”

Mr. Pollmino ended up being a short, balding man with laugh lines creasing his face. He, along with his partner, a Mr. Mime, were stuck behind the front desk haggling with a customer and their manectric when they walked in, but not being directly greeted at the door didn’t take away from the experience whatsoever, since the shop did indeed seem to be a pokécapture paradise to Harry’s untrained eye. The place looked to be twice or even three times as big as Mr. Ollivander’s tiny shop, and most of the pokaps were lined along the walls like albums would be in a record store, ranging from a light silvery gray to a dark almost-black. There were stone ones on the left and tin and aluminum ones on the right, which is where most of the customers were browsing, while other pokaps were piled onto pyramids on tables or pedestals throughout the rest of the store. These had more attention from the wide-eyed children that had accompanied their parents to the shop that day. When Harry took a closer look, it turned out the reason they were getting so much attention was because they were made of anything _but_ stone, tin, or aluminum: they ranged from marble and granite and plain translucent quartz, to more precious gems like ruby, sapphire, emerald, and even diamond, like his letter had said – though, that pedestal just had a note on it saying, ‘DIAMOND – Ask For Assistance’, likely because it was so expensive. Harry took one look at the number of zeroes on the placard and whistled. There were precious metals, too, with platinum, silver, and gold among the pricier ones, which also had ‘Ask For Assistance’ signs.

According to Professor McGonagall (as well as a helpful poster hanging on a portion of the wall that wasn’t taken up by shelves of pokaps), different materials meant different catch rates, the way apricorns affected the pokéballs they were able to make in the muggle world. The gray stone ones were the most basic, plentiful, and the cheapest, and were therefore considered the standard that all other pokaps based their own catch rates on. The tin and aluminum ones had a slightly higher rate (so slight that the difference between them and the stone ones was near negligible, in fact, which was why they were considered a good ‘standard substitute’ for incoming students), and then the marble and quartz after that (with a much higher rate, comparably), and so on and so forth, with the more expensive pokaps, logically, having the highest rate. (“This is why diamond pokaps are banned at Hogwarts,” Professor McGonagall told him. “It wouldn’t do for students to be able to catch whatever they wanted with little to no effort; it wouldn’t teach them anything.” The next part she said half under her breath and with a bitter tilt to her lips: “I’ve been trying to get platinum and gold pokaps banned for years under the same reasoning, but it has been… very slow going.”) Some of them had type-specific rates, though, rather than general ones – obsidian was particularly good at catching fire types, for instance, and steel, ironically, was a good choice for steel types. All of them were also heavily spelled to resist any kind of damage or wear and tear; you wouldn’t want to trip and have the gemstone pokap you were carrying shatter, after all, or have it collect enough scratches that it started to crack.

Harry decided to pick up five aluminum ones, and a specialty belt made to hold them all properly. (It was really just a normal belt with two leather containers that could clasp shut attached to it that would hang off both hips that could fit three pokaps each, but he got it half off for being a new student, so he didn’t complain.) He did stare longingly after the more expensive ones like the other kids, but, even with the veritable fortune he had in his bag, they were wildly out of his budget. Professor McGonagall had taken one look at the price of a sandstone one and scoffed, as they’d apparently risen more than five sickles since she’d last entered the shop and she found it “utterly reprehensible”, which also contributed to Harry deciding the pretty agate ones could wait until next year.

They made work of the rest of Harry’s list in good time. The first order of business was to pick out a trunk to hold everything, including what they’d already bought as well as his tiny gold Gringotts key and the bag he’d taken from the Dursleys earlier. (He’d almost forgotten about it, tucked deep into his pocket; that morning already felt so long ago, and it’d only been a few hours…) Professor McGonagall was able to convince him that a trunk spelled against intrusions was better than any lock would be, and Harry was able to convince her that you never knew when you might need a multi-compartmental piece of luggage. This addition certainly made the subsequent visits to the potions supply store for a cauldron, scales, and vials and the apothecary for ingredients a far easier experience than it could’ve been. The trip to Astronomy Accessories for a telescope and star map and Flourish & Blotts for his school books went equally smooth with somewhere to put everything (even if Professor McGonagall had to drag him away from a book about curses and counter-curses, telling him in no uncertain terms that cursing the Dursleys would _not_ solve his problems, no matter how nice the book might make it sound). Antidotes, paralyze-heals, incense, and the like were also bought, and Harry, under his chaperon's watchful eye, decided to buy a box of berries as well, for full coverage. Their last stop of the day was Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, where Harry was fitted for his uniform as well as several day robes and regular shirts and trousers. This was done alongside a pudgy, shy boy named Neville while Professor McGonagall and Annaise spoke with the boy’s grandmother and her vespiquen. He looked just as uncomfortable getting sized for his uniform as Harry felt. (Although, Harry got an entirely brand new wardrobe out of the deal, as well, complete with new shoes, underwear, socks, shirts, and trousers, so he couldn’t find it in himself to complain, since his only other options were hand-me-downs from Dudley.)

Afterwards, they had ice cream for lunch at Florean Fortescue’s Simi-sational Ice Cream Parlor – chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts for Harry, vanilla and pistachio for Professor McGonagall, and a single cone of oran berry swirl for Annaise that she ate in one bite. The professor shared a few stories about his parents while they ate, too, particularly about his dad’s penchant for Quidditch, which then transformed into her explaining what exactly _Quidditch_ was, as well as the Hogwarts house system.

It was a great end to an already great day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh! world-building!! my brand!!!


	4. Hagrid's Hut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The feather-light charm that’d been built into Harry’s trunk was standing strong, but he felt heavier and heavier the closer they got to the alley they’d first arrived in. Was he going to go back to the Dursleys after all?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on my other in-progress fic more than this one, so this may be the last update for a while (or the next chapter will; I think both end at pretty okay points/not cliffhangers), so enjoy - for now <3

After they’d waved goodbye to Mr. Fortescue and his simipour, they were off once again, this time out of Diagon Alley. The feather-light charm that’d been built into Harry’s trunk was standing strong, but he felt heavier and heavier the closer they got to the alley they’d first arrived in. Was he going to go back to the Dursleys after all? He didn’t think he’d be able to stand having to go back after learning everything he had. He especially didn’t think he’d be able to stand being stuffed back into his cupboard and locked in with no food for the foreseeable future, particularly after he’d practically just been taken off his last punishment – _particularly_ after being given the hope of getting his very own partner, his very own _team_ , in the not-so-distant future.

“Erm. Professor?”

“Yes, Mr. Potter?”

“Where… Where are we going now?”

Her stride didn’t slow one bit. “We, Mr. Potter, are going to Hogwarts.”

Harry’s jaw dropped, and he floundered for a few seconds, long enough for Professor McGonagall to explain; “Your relatives are clearly more than incapable, and, until a suitable replacement can be found, Hogwarts’ wards are second to none.” They’d talked a bit about wards back at Flourish & Blotts, so he knew it took a lot of different things to construct them and that their primary function was to protect people through houses and property lines and such, but, from what he’d been told about Hogwarts (I mean, a real, actual _castle_?), it had to have a _ton_. “I will be making arrangements the moment we get back, but I suppose you can stay with Hagrid until everything is settled.”

“Hagrid?”

“Rubeus Hagrid,” she clarified. “The groundskeeper and key-holder for the school. There are some staff members who will not much appreciate having a student out and about before September, as the summer recess is usually their only true respite throughout the year, but keeping you outside the castle and busy for the next month should ease most of those concerns, and Hagrid _does_ live outside the castle, and will certainly have no trouble keeping you busy.”

Harry nodded; he could understand that. Most of the teachers he’d had in primary had hated children and looked forward to summer vacation as much as if not more than their pupils. He’d often wondered why they’d gotten into teaching in the first place, but it wasn’t really his business. As it was, the dark cloud that’d been forming over his head at the idea of going back to the Dursleys had eased into brilliant sunshine just like that, and he was practically skipping by the time they reached the alley. Annaise was once again sulkily sucked back into her pokap, and, with Professor McGonagall holding onto his shoulder, they were once again whisked off into the dreadful sucking sensation of teleportation. Or, rather, _apparation_ , he guessed it was called when wizards did it.

When they reappeared, Harry was able to keep it together a lot better than he had earlier, likely because he knew what was coming this time. Instead of falling to the ground and having to shove down nausea, he only had to hold himself up with his hands on his knees, bent almost double at the waist. He’d dropped his trunk, and was breathing pretty heavily, but, despite having just ate, didn’t throw anything up! A tick in the win column for him.

At the feeling of hot puffs of air on his face, blowing at the stray hairs on his brow, he straightened back up and shook his head to clear it. The hot puffs of air had apparently been courtesy of Annaise, who had already been let back out from her pokap and was sitting with her head cocked in gentle concern at his feet. Harry had no doubt he probably looked a sight, but he just waved her off. “I’m–” He cleared his throat when his voice came out too scratchy for his liking. “I’m okay; promise.” She gave him a doubtful look, at that, but didn’t press him, and instead just started licking her paw to clean her face.

Harry took the opportunity to look around now that he wasn’t feeling so dizzy. They were next to a huge pair of wrought iron gates built into a large stone wall, for one, which was where Professor McGonagall was standing, less than two meters away, but behind and to the side of them all was a town. It wasn’t exactly a sprawling city, but it _was_ bustling; he could see plenty of adults, kids, and pokémon coming to and from and weaving between the shops he could just make out in the square beyond. He, Annaise, and Professor McGonagall seemed to’ve landed closer to the residential area, which was much less busy, comparably, with hardly anyone out and about close enough to pay them any mind. The only thing that _did_ seem to being paying attention was a murkrow that was perched on a nearby chimney, who croaked in greeting when Harry offered it a wave before nestling its face back under its wing.

Not really having anything else to investigate, Harry turned to Professor McGonagall, just now noticing that she was making a series of complicated motions with her wand at the gates (that he realized had two altaria sculptures sat atop the stone columns beside the hinges, when he looked closer – sculptures that were _moving_ , oh, holy miltank). She was just lowering it when he finally grabbed hold of his trunk’s handle and walked closer with Annaise on his heels, and the gates glowed a bright, dazzling orange for a good few seconds before the color faded and they creaked open to let them enter. Once there was just enough room for them to slip inside, she motioned for him to follow and, not wanting to be left behind, he hastened to do so. The gates closed soundly behind them the second they passed the threshold, glowing and fading once again when they did, and the altaria sculptures watched them go.

Harry was distracted from peering curiously at the altaria as they turned back to the town they’d left behind when Professor McGonagall brandished her wand again and the phantom figure of a purrloin leapt from the tip, made of radiant white-blue wisps of light. “Tell the headmaster that I’ve returned, and that I will be having some words with him very soon,” she told it. From her tone of voice, Harry very much did not want to be there when that exchange occurred. The not-purrloin just bowed its head and bounded off… _much_ faster than a normal purrloin. It was practically flying, its leaps taking it up the slope they were standing at the bottom of and disappearing in a mere three jumps, leaving a trail of white-blue mist behind it as it went. Professor McGonagall then slipped her wand back up her sleeve and waved him on, and they started walking.

The trek across the grounds took the better part of ten minutes. Harry saw plenty of grass types in that time – a frankly astounding amount of oddishes, in particular, and one large gloom that puffed its cheeks out at him when he looked at it for too long. The view was incredible; the land rolled like hills, leading into a thick forest that looked dark even in the daylight on one side and a lake so still Harry wondered if there were any water types living within it at all on another. (There were, of course; further out was a pod of lapras, and closer to shore there were two krabby doing their best to one-up each other. He could only imagine what was going on beneath the surface.) The castle, though, was the real star. It was taller than any building Harry had ever seen, and the stone that it was made of was weathered, but looked nowhere close to collapse, or even having any part of its foundation begin to crack, despite its obvious age. It had at least three separate towers, and he could see from here the flying types that’d decided to roost on them. (It was hard to miss a fearow, even from this distance.) There were hundreds if not thousands of windows, some made of stained glass, all glittering brilliantly in the afternoon sunlight, and, when he stretched his neck, he caught a glimpse of a courtyard with a fountain in it, and another that clearly seemed to be a battlefield.

_Wow_ , he thought, trying to commit everything to memory while still following Professor McGonagall. _I wonder what it looks like when the students are here._

At the crossroads between the lake and the forest was a little wooden hut with a chimney and a thriving garden beside it. In said garden was a snorlax who was (not surprisingly) snoring away quite loudly up against the hut, as well as a trevenant and a man who were both large enough to tower over Harry even if he was seated on Professor McGonagall’s shoulders. The trevenant was actually only a little taller than the man, if you didn’t count the scraggly branches sprouting from its head. They both seemed to be trimming some of the more unruly vines that’d started to grow up the side of the hut, and two tangela were watching them work diligently at their feet. One of the tangela caught sight of them first and was the one who alerted the others, and they all turned to look at them as they halted on the edge of the turned-over soil (save the snorlax, of course, which didn’t so much as twitch). Facing them, Harry could now see that the man was also quite hairy, and that his beard took up most of his face.

“Perfessor McGonagall! Annaise!” the man greeted jovially, lifting one great hand from a pair of sheers to wave. “What brings yeh down ‘ere? And ‘o’s this?” Here, he turned his black eyes on Harry, who shrank back slightly. It wasn’t so much that he was scared of him, but his size was intimidating – even more so up close with all of his focus directed at him.

“Ah, yes, my apologies,” Professor McGonagall said, taking her wand back out and waving it over him. Harry shuddered at the sensation, and rubbed at his eyes when they stung again. When he blinked them back open, he could see his frames had returned to their normal shape, and could more vaguely see that his fringe had similarly returned to its usual black. He could also see the man’s mouth had fallen open in shock. The trevenant didn’t seem to see the big deal, and neither did the tangela, but the man made up for their indifference by sucking in a tight breath.

“Is tha’…?”

“Hagrid, I’d like to introduce you to Harry Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, gesturing to Harry. He noticed the trevenant grimace at the words; it evidently recognized his name, if not his face. “Mr. Potter, this is Rubeus Hagrid, the groundskeeper and keeper of keys for Hogwarts.”

Hagrid walked closer, and knelt before him. Even on his knees he was still several heads taller than Harry was, but he saw his eyes, between his bushy moustache and eyebrows, shine with tears. “Harry Potter…” he said, choked up. “Why, the last I saw yeh, y’were just a babe, all bundled up-like. Yeh look a lot like yer dad, but y’got yer mum’s eyes.”

“I do?” Harry asked, surprised. Professor McGonagall had told him he looked a lot like his father (the primary reason she’d had to change his appearance to go shopping in the first place), but she hadn’t been able to say anything about his mother before Harry’d asked what Quidditch was and started another conversation. They’d never gotten back around to it.

“’Course yeh do – I’d recognize ‘em anywhere,” Hagrid said, leaving Harry with perhaps more questions than answers before standing back to his full height and looking between him and Professor McGonagall. “But what’re you all doin’ ‘ere? Y’know students aren’t really ‘lowed on the grounds till term starts.”

“I’m well aware of the regulations, Hagrid,” Professor McGonagall said. “However, it has come to my attention, when I went to deliver Mr. Potter’s acceptance letter this morning, that his relatives were less than satisfactory guardians.” Her tone became monumentally more terse as she spoke, and Harry saw Hagrid’s eyes glint dangerously in the light.

“’Less than satisfact’ry’?” he repeated, outraged. “Whaddayeh mean, ‘less than satisfact’ry’?!” He turned to Harry. “If them Dursleys were givin’ you trouble, Harry, any trouble at all–”

Harry felt incredibly touched that a complete stranger would threaten the Dursleys on his behalf, and looked at Hagrid in a new light as Professor McGonagall told him in no uncertain terms, “The matter will be taken care of very soon, Hagrid.” This was accompanied by a stern glare that made Hagrid glance away and shuffle his feet. “However, until then, Mr. Potter needs a place to stay, and, as I refuse to return him to his relatives, that leaves Hogwarts as the next best option.” Here, she sighed. “You know as well as I do that _some_ of the staff–” The emphasis she put on ‘some’ meant something specific, Harry was sure. “–would prefer a child not be around the school during the summer, and I don’t blame them, but there must be a compromise. As such, I thought to keep him on the grounds, but away from the castle, until September 1st.” Hagrid seemed to be understanding where she was going, because his face was lighting up under his beard. “Would you be willing to put him up until then, Hagrid? I do hate to impose on you like this with no notice–”

“O’ course not, perfessor!” Hagrid exclaimed, thrilled. “Wouldn’ be a problem t’all! I’d love t’have the lad ‘round for the summer!” Harry grinned back at Hagrid when the man turned his smiling face his way. “Whaddayeh say, ‘Arry?”

“That sounds brilliant!”

“Excellent,” Professor McGonagall said, pleased. “Now, if you would allow me to fix up a bunk for Mr. Potter inside before I adjourn to the castle?” She gestured to the wooden hut on the other side of the garden.

“O’ course, o’ course!” he enthused, waving them after him as he led them to the door. Harry struggled a little with his trunk over the grass, but managed well enough on his own. “Trev, you can take care a’ the rest o’ the vines?” Hagrid addressed the trevenant, who grunted in acquiesce and continued snipping away at the runaway vegetation. The tangelas similarly returned their gaze to the dual-type to watch it work.

The inside of the hut was small, but cozy. It was only one room, with a fireplace and a mamoswine of a bed tucked between two corners with a patchwork quilt folded on top of it. This was where Professor McGonagall turned her attention to. The walls were lined with shelves, which were subsequently lined with jars upon jars of berry juice, herbal paste, and sometimes combinations of the two. The tiny circular table near the fireplace had a chair beside it with a giant fur coat made of a dozen pockets tucked over the back, and it was littered with playing cards and a singular tiny chipped teacup. It also had a granbull resting underneath it that was eying them _very_ interestedly.

Harry took all of this in with absolute fascination. He’d already decided it was the most comfortable place he’d ever been.

“Well? D’yeh like it?”

Harry turned to Hagrid, seeing Professor McGonagall start constructing a bed frame from a pile of loose wood that’d been by the door with her wand out of the corner of his eye. The man looked a little nervous, twiddling his thumbs as he waited for a response. Harry just beamed. “I love it!”

Hagrid’s demeanor turned on a dime, and he stood up straighter, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. The granbull made its way out from under the table to sniff at Harry, and a klefki floated up beside Hagrid’s head and made a questioning noise. It was a _shiny_ kelfki, actually, from the burnished gold of its ring and blue of its bulb. Outside of the zoo, which had had several shiny pokémon (most memorably the ekans. He hoped it’d managed to get back to Brazil…), he’d never seen any in person, and especially not any so close, without a wall of glass or fenced in enclosure separating them, so he was more than a little stunned. Hagrid just laughed good-naturedly at the face he was no doubt making.

“Fang, Asmund, this is ‘Arry,” he told the two pokémon. “Harry, these’re Fang–” He pointed to the granbull, who, after his introduction, had stood on his hind legs to lick Harry’s face. “–an’ Asmund.” The klefki jingled the frankly alarming amount of keys it had on its ring in greeting. Harry supposed, while scratching Fang’s ears (to the granbull’s clear delight), that… well, Hagrid was the keeper of keys for an entire castle, after all. Asmund certainly had its job cut out for it. “Yeh met Trev outside – he’d be the trevenant cuttin’ those vines for those tangela. They use ‘em fer their nests come autumn. An’ Sully’s out there, too, ‘course. He’s a right slacker, that‘un; likes nothin’ but sleepin’ an’ eatin’, an’ even then ‘e likes sleepin’ more.” From his tone, though, his complaints were nothing more than hot air. The snorlax was on his team, after all, and he loved him just the same as he loved the others. Even if he _was_ lazy.

“Alright Hagrid, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, and they turned to the third human in the hut. She had finished building the bed – mattress, pillows, blankets, and all. It was less than half the size of Hagrid’s, but just the right size for Harry, and was perched above the foot of Hagrid’s bed closer to the ceiling. It seemed to be nailed into the two walls the bed frame was touching, because there was nothing else holding it up beyond the ladder than was now leaning against it (likely there so Harry would be able to climb into it at all). “Everything seems to be in order, but I’d like for you to make sure my sticking charm is as permanent as its supposed to be, Mr. Potter.”

“Sure,” Harry said, leaving his trunk by the door to swiftly clamber up the ladder and into the bed. He bounced up and down a bit, and, when nothing so much as creaked, grinned at the two adults. “It’s _perfect_.” The mattress was a little lumpy, and the blanket a little scratchy, but nothing could compare to the feeling of actually, palpably being away from the Dursleys.

From being able to live _here_.

Professor McGonagall nodded once, as if she’d expected as much. “Very good. I am going to speak with the headmaster now, but I will be back tomorrow to see how you are settling in. Hagrid, I will be asking a house elf to provide meals for the two of you for the remainder of the summer so you don’t have to venture into the Great Hall, if that is acceptable?”

Harry wondered what a ‘house elf’ was. Not another pokémon, surely – he couldn’t think of any that had a name like _that_. “’Course, perfessor, shouldn’t be a problem t’all.” Well, clearly Hagrid wasn’t confused. He’d ask about it later.

“Thank you. Do your best to have him inside to eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, please.”

Hagrid nodded to show he understood, and Professor McGonagall turned to Harry again. “I will be back tomorrow around noon, Mr. Potter.” Harry nodded, too, and then she was stepping out of the hut.

Hagrid motioned him down from the bed, and Harry, reverently, patted the pillow – _his_ pillow – before climbing back down the ladder and following him outside. Fang stayed behind with a parting bark, and Asmund settled itself on the notch beside the door where it’d likely been hiding before they’d come in. “Yeh can leave yer stuff fer now, Harry; we can take care of it tomorrow mornin’. Gotta lot ter show yeh ‘fore sundown.” He looked about as excited to show Harry around as Harry was to be shown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love hagrid so fucking much y'all. this fic is really going to expose all my favorites
> 
> also fun trivia fact!: asmund the klefki has been the keyholder of the castle since the founders, and used to be helga hufflepuff herself's!


	5. Hedwig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The castle was big, the grounds even bigger, and Hagrid was in charge of a lot of stuff. Learning about everything he did for the school and helping out as much as he was able kept him busy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay THIS'LL probably be the last one for a lil bit. again, I'm working more on my other fic than this one right now, even though this one's clockin in around 60k or so where I stopped. enjoy! <3

The next week passed quickly. The first thing he found out was what a house elf was: a tiny, wrinkly, bug-type-eyed being with giant hairy ears and spindly fingers. The one who brought them their meals everyday was named Posey, and the food was delicious and filling. Hagrid always tried to get her to stay for a chat, but _she_ would always beg off with other chores that needed to be done around the castle, and then disappear again. (That was alright with Harry, though, because Hagrid used their mealtimes to tell him stories about his parents. Harry soaked these talks up like a sponge.)

Harry found out second that there was always something to do. The castle was big, the grounds even bigger, and Hagrid was in charge of a lot of stuff. Learning about everything he did for the school and helping out as much as he was able kept him busy. He was looking forward to the rest of the summer with more excitement than he’d probably ever felt in his life.

The night before “the big day!”, as Hagrid had taken to calling it, they were interrupted in the middle of desert by a knock on the door. They both paused in surprise and exchanged looks with one another before Fang leapt up from under the table and started barking. “Fang! Back!” Hagrid called, wiping his mouth with a napkin before getting to his feet. Harry was very tempted to continue eating his treacle tart, as it was very good, but he was too curious. Who would be visiting them this late? Professor McGonagall came over every other morning or so to check up on him, and Professor Sprout’d come over once for tea and had promised to come back next week as well, but Hagrid’s hut was reasonably far from the castle, and it was already dark out.

His questions were answered when Hagrid pulled Fang back by the scruff and held the struggling fairy-type under his arm to open the door. “Perfessor Dumbledore, sir!” the man greeted, shuffling to the side to allow the visitor in. Now that Harry could see around Hagrid’s bulk, the visitor – Professor Dumbledore, apparently – was revealed to be an old man. A… _very_ old man, actually, with a frankly outstanding beard and a castform hovering over one shoulder. If someone’d asked him to describe what a wizard looked like before Professor McGonagall had collected him from the Dursleys, he probably would’ve described this man. He even had the pointed cap and purple robes – with shining silver stars on them!

“Good evening, Hagrid,” Professor Dumbledore returned in a pleasant voice, and his half-moon spectacles glittered in the light from the fire as the door was shut behind him. His eyes landed on Harry. “And a good evening to you as well, Mr. Potter.”

Harry blinked, and stammered out, “Oh, er, um, good evening, headmaster.”

“Oh, my apologies,” he said, seeing their unfinished dessert. “I had hoped to catch you after you had already eaten. I hope I’m not interrupting?”

“Not t’all, perfessor!” Hagrid said, placing Fang back down. The fairy-type immediately scrabbled to the headmaster and whined until his ears were scratched. The castform at his shoulder floated down to distract him so Professor Dumbledore could straighten back up. “Always a pleasure t’have yeh. Y’want me to put the kettle on?”

“That will not be necessary, but your hospitality is appreciated, my friend,” Professor Dumbledore said, raising a hand. “I’ve come to request your assistance in a matter of utmost importance.” Harry thought he saw his eyes flicker over to him for a moment, probably wondering if it was wise to have this discussion with him present, so Harry sat up straighter, hid a cough behind his hand, and stared pointedly at his plate, doing his best not to squirm. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the corner of the headmaster’s moustache twitch, but he didn’t do any more than that, so Harry assumed he’d passed whatever test he’d set up for himself, and let out a breath.

“Whatever yeh need, perfessor!”

“Thank you, Hagrid.”

The castform that Harry’d lost track of suddenly reappeared inches from Harry’s nose, and he squeaked, jumping back a little in his chair. The castform giggled silently, and Harry sighed as his heart rate slowly climbed back down. Looking over behind the normal-type, he saw Fang, sprawled out on Hagrid's bed and snoring with his tongue lolling out. The castform had clearly exhausted him. When he focused back in on Hagrid and Professor Dumbledore’s conversation, though, the only thing he caught was the headmaster saying, “Please bring it to my office the moment you return.”

“’Course!” Hagrid agreed, nodding to show he’d understood, and Professor Dumbledore nodded back. He turned to Harry, who very deliberately only paid attention to his food to not give away how disappointed he was at missing what they’d been talking about. He narrowed his eyes at the castform as it floated back over to its trainer without a care in the world.

“Good evening once again, gentlemen,” he told them before departing. Harry could’ve sworn he saw the castform wink at him before the door closed, and huffed under his breath more than a little petulantly, sticking his fork into his tart and scooping a bite into his mouth. _It must’ve distracted him on purpose… Professor Dumbledore must’ve known he was going to eavesdrop._

He felt at least a little guilty about it, true, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t moodily chew his dessert.

“Well, Harry, that means I’m gonna be gone tomorrow mornin’,” Hagrid sighed, sitting back down at the table to finish his own slice of rhubarb pie. “I’m sure you an’ Trev’ll be jus’ fine fer a few hours without me.”

Harry had no doubt they would – Trev was as competent a worker as he was a babysitter, after all – but now his curiosity was piqued once more. “Um… where were you going again?” he asked in his most innocent voice.

Hagrid didn’t seem to pick up on it. “Gringotts,” he announced, shoveling a bit of pie into his mouth. He didn’t speak again until he’d swallowed. “Dumbledore says he’s gonna be too busy t’pick it up himself, so ‘e wants me t’do it for ‘im. ‘S real valuable, mind, so its gotta be done soon ‘spossible. Gringotts’s the safest place in the world, ‘o course, ‘cept fer Hogwarts, so ‘e’s bringin’ it here, tha’s all.”

_Oh._ Harry guessed that made sense. From what he knew about the headmaster, he was a very, very busy man. Though, to be fair, he didn’t exactly know how busy. Actually, he hadn’t even known what he’d looked like until tonight. Hagrid had nothing bad to say when it came to the man, but Professor McGonagall had certainly been cross with him the day they’d gone to Diagon Alley, and they were the two adults he interacted with most, so he wasn’t sure who to believe. (Although, Professor McGonagall had also looked incredibly smug the day after he’d settled in at Hagrid’s, and had continued to look much more pleased since then. “My talk with the headmaster went _very_ well,” was all she said when Harry asked, but he’d seen Annaise snicker to herself when he did, so it _had_ to’ve been more than that. He thinks.)

So Harry just nodded, and dug back into his tart with vigor.

The next morning saw Hagrid leaving before the sun was properly over the horizon, and Harry left by his lonesome for the first time in a week. This was, of course, a blatant lie, because Trev wouldn’t let him out of his sight during their chores. Fang tagged along and salivated whenever they came across a particularly appetizing berry bush and wrinkled his nose and grunted in disgust whenever they came across some of the more bitter herbs growing in the forest. He also whined dramatically whenever the trevenant decided some part of the morning was just too dangerous and picked them both up to sit them down in the divot between the branches on his head to watch him work from a flying-type’s point of view. It was like a grumpiggy-back ride, but better. Fang might’ve grumbled about it, but Harry couldn’t find it in himself to mind; having company while he worked and being looked out for were still new and strange experiences, after the Dursleys. He found chores were a lot more enjoyable when he wasn’t the only one doing them, and when he could occasionally just sit back and not have to worry about whether he was going to punished for not contributing. It was… nice. It was _fun_.

They were finished everything that had to be done in the mornings by something like ten-thirty, and Hagrid still wasn’t back, so Harry decided to hunker down and read _Pokémon Categories & What They Mean_ on the hut’s front stoop with Fang curled up and passed out on his feet to wait for him to return. He’d made a game out of it by trying to guess which pokémon it was based on category alone, but was losing by the time he was interrupted.

“Ah, there y’are, Harry!” Hagrid’s familiar, booming voice called out, and Harry looked up to find him walking over from the outskirts of the forest with a manectric and trio of electrike on his heels. “Thought yeh’d still be out with Trev there, lad.”

“We finished a while ago, so he sent me back for lunch,” Harry said, snapping the book shut and getting to his feet once Fang had snorted himself awake and rolled into a standing position.

“It's ‘round that time, innit? A’right, head on in; I promised these four some shuca berries fer helpin’ me out of a scrape last week, it’ll only take a mo’.” At the words ‘shuca berry’, the three electrikes’ tails started wagging, and they started jumping up and down and yipping with excitement, while the manectric just fondly rolled its eyes. Harry hid his laughter behind his hand and opened the door, letting Fang bound in in front of him.

Hagrid was just sitting down at the table when Posey popped in with lunch – a platter of sandwiches of all different sorts, some sweet potato crisps and chips, a pitcher of pumpkin juice, and a great meaty bone for Fang to gnaw on. Harry didn’t think he’d ever get used to just how good even the simplest food from the Hogwarts kitchen could taste; he didn’t think he’d ever had a better turkey and cheese sandwich in his life!

Harry had gotten through one whole sandwich and moved onto another, and Hagrid through three and was starting on his fourth (with Asmund the klefki nibbling on any crust that he ripped off), when Harry decided to ask, “So how was it?”

“Hm?” Hagrid said, swallowing his bite before clarifying, “Wha’ was that, ‘Arry?”

“Your trip. How was it? Did you get what you went for?”

“Ah, yeah!” Hagrid said, waving his hand. “No trouble t’all! Woulda been back sooner, ‘cept those carts always leave my stomach churnin’ somethin’ fierce. Could barely walk after gettin’ outta there.”

Harry nodded his head sympathetically, since he knew the feeling, and would’ve turned back to his plate with his curiosity sated if the expression on Hagrid’s face didn’t morph into one of barely-hidden excitement. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion; he didn’t think Hagrid would be so excited about almost getting sick at Gringotts, which meant something else’d happened that he wasn’t telling him. “Is that… _all_ that happened this morning?”

That seemed to be all that was needed to do the trick, because Hagrid suddenly straightened up in his chair and set his sandwich down to pick up the massive handkerchief he used as a napkin. As he wiped his hands clean, his eyes darted back and forth, as if looking for any eavesdroppers, before setting the handkerchief down and digging his hand into one of his many pockets. “ _Well_ ,” he began, sounding positively tickled with delight. “Today’s yer birthday, so I jus’ thought, y’know…”

He pulled out, into the filtered sunlight of the hut, a pokap. It was an off-white color, and, when Harry leaned in to get a better look, had clusters and veins of dark, mossy green almost painted on its surface. Once Hagrid moved his thumb out of the way, a glowing green circle came into sight, as well, showing that it had a pokémon inside, ready and waiting to be released.

_His birthday…?_ Now, why would Hagrid bring that up, unless – wait, did Hagrid– did he get a pokémon for _him_? All Harry could do was gape and blink in stunned shock for what felt like hours after that revelation, but was really probably only a few long seconds. Hagrid seemed to have expected as much, as he continued to fill the silence, holding it over the table for Harry to inspect even more closely. Asmund followed his hand, peering at the pokap curiously “This’un practically nested ‘erself in me hair when I firs’ entered the shop! Seemed t’know I wasn’t shoppin’ fer meself. I did take a look t’all the other flyin’ types, mind, jus’ in case any of ‘em stuck out, but I knew she’d be the one.”

Harry, eventually, managed a stuttered, “I… for me? You got a pokémon for _me_?” After digesting what Hagrid had said, it was still a little hard to comprehend, to–to _accept_. The words probably would’ve come out a bit too choked with tears for his taste, if he wasn’t so utterly _dumbfounded_. He blinked at it when Hagrid wiggled it a little from where he was still holding it over the table, but took it on reflex, not wanting to be rude. He couldn’t stop himself from staring at it in awe, running his thumbs along the carved edges.

“Well, who else’d I be gettin’ one fer today? Meself?” He nudged Harry’s arm a little, and Harry almost jumped, he was so focused on committing the glow of the green circle to memory – proof that there was a pokémon inside. _His_ pokémon inside. “C’mon, Harry, let ‘er out; she’s beyond excited ter meet yeh.”

Harry hesitated for a just moment before pressing the non-glowing circle the way he’d seen Professor McGonagall do with Annaise’s pokap, and, with a flash of white light that lit up the whole hut, a taillow fluttered into existence shaking her head, presumably to get rid of the dizziness from being cooped up in such a cramped space. (Harry had a moment to wonder what the inside of a pokap was actually like, but was quickly distracted.)

The taillow’s eyes zeroed in on him as soon as she was able to gain her bearings, and launched herself at him with a delighted cry the moment their eyes met. Harry’s breath was nearly knocked out of him with the force of her flying into his chest, and his chair tipped back a little, but fell back onto all four legs before he’d even registered it’d started tipping in the first place. He was too busy trying to find a way to hold her without crushing her or messing up her plumage – a somewhat difficult task, with the way she was ecstatically chirping and nuzzling her head and beak into his shirt. Harry eventually got her talons curled around one forearm and the other hand cradling her back so he could run his fingers through her wings. It was only when he was scratching the back of her head and earning himself an elated warble that he realized he’d been grinning like a gastly since he caught sight of her, and, when he sheepishly looked back up at Hagrid to apologize for ignoring him for so long, it was to find him looking exceptionally pleased, in an ‘I’m thrilled you two get along’ kind of way as well as an ‘I’m smug because I did this’ kind of way.

He clapped his hands together once he realized he had Harry’s attention, and his moustache quivered with the strength of his smile. Fang was just starting to try to stand on his hind legs to reach the table to see what the hullabaloo was, sniffing the air like a man on a mission, no doubt having recognized the new scent in the hut and interested in finding out what it was. “Now, what say we finish up eatin’ so you two can have some time t’get t’know each other, eh?”

Harry, now that he was thinking about it, didn’t feel all that hungry anymore, but the taillow took her head out of his chest to squawk in agreement, so Harry let her hop onto the table to pick at the rest of his chips, where Asmund floated down to introduce itself. It made Hagrid chuckle before he picked up his own sandwich again, and Harry found himself planting his elbows on the table and dropping his chin into his hands to watch her eat. He’d have to find a name for her, and soon; he couldn’t just keep calling her ‘the taillow’ all the time.

By the time dinner rolled around, she and Fang had been properly acquainted with one another (Fang had tried to slobber all over her, before she’d squeaked and fluttered away) and she had officially been dubbed ‘Hedwig’, after what felt like a hundred or so names posed by he and Hagrid both that she'd turned her beak up at. Harry couldn’t find it in himself to mind… even if he’d had to eventually turn to his _A History of Magic_ book for inspiration. Now, she was comfortably nested in his hair the way she had been most of the afternoon, sticking to a (relatively) higher vantage point as Harry helped Hagrid and Trev with the rest of the day’s chores. He’d already gotten used to her weight, and would reach up to stroke her feathers every so often, to her trilling pleasure. It still felt kind of unreal, that he had his very own partner now. And that he’d be getting _another_ come September! He felt like he was walking on air the rest of the day, and randomly found himself grinning like a dope whenever he paid enough attention to what his face was doing.

Just as they were settling down inside for the last meal of the day, with Fang sprawled out on Hagrid’s bed and Asmund hooking itself back beside the door with a satisfied coo, there was a knock at the door that had the granbull shooting to his feet so quickly he fell right off the mattress. Harry coughed to cover a laugh at the stunned expression on his face when he landed on the floor, but that only lasted a moment before he was barking and scrabbling at the door to try and get at whoever was on the other side. Hagrid let out a resigned sigh, but grabbed the fairy-type and held him under his arm to open the door without him tackling their visitors to the ground nonetheless.

“Perfessor McGonagall! Perfessor Sprout!” Harry perked up, at that; what were they doing here so late? Had something happened?

“Good evening, Hagrid,” he heard Professor McGonagall say, a greeting echoed by the herbology teacher behind her, and then Hagrid was moving aside to let them in. Annaise and Professor Sprout’s heracross Simon came in first, Annaise ambling over to receive her customary ear scritches while Simon stuck to waving instead, and they were followed by their trainers, who were both holding wrapped boxes that had Harry furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall said once she caught sight of him at the table. “We– oh, my. This _is_ a surprise.”

Harry cocked his head in question. She was looking right at him, as was Professor Sprout, now, and Annaise and Simon followed their line of sight to see what the big deal was. Annaise in particular let out a peculiar noise as she sat back on her haunches, but Professor Sprout’s exclamation cleared things up a bit; “A taillow! My, my!”

“Oh, yeah!” Harry said, straightening back up. He felt Hedwig shifting and heard her squawk in greeting. “This is Hedwig! Hagrid picked her up from Diagon Alley this morning. Isn’t she great?” He felt her puff up in pride, at that, and saw Hagrid start beaming with glee from where he was still standing with a weakly struggling Fang off to the side, and his smile widened.

“I’d certainly say so!” Professor Sprout said, sounding positively elated on his behalf. “Flying types are right useful, although I can’t claim to have trained any myself, aside from my June; always preferred grass and bug types, you know.”

“Why no, I didn’t, why don’t you tell us more, Pomona,” Professor McGonagall muttered under her breath, her tone completely flat, and Harry covered his mouth to stifle his giggles at the way Professor Sprout rolled her eyes and huffed.

“Oh, as if you can talk, Minerva. How many flying types do you have on your team again? Was it _zero_?”

“ _Nevertheless_ ,” Professor McGonagall said tersely, blatantly ignoring the way Harry and the rest of the pokémon in the hut were snickering and the way Professor Sprout’s eyes were sparkling with suppressed mirth in favor of setting the box she’d brought in with her on the table. Harry craned his neck to investigate, and found it long, thin, and narrow – sort of the same as his wand box, actually. “We’re here to deliver some birthday presents, not to debate the merits or otherwise of proper team combinations. _Again_.”

Professor Sprout looked ready and raring to debate these merits again, but Harry interrupted before she could even open her mouth; “Birthday presents?”

“Of course, dear!” Professor Sprout said, setting her own box beside Professor McGonagall’s. This one was maybe half as long, but twice as wide, and looked pentagonal rather than rectangular. “It’s not much, but this is your first birthday in the magical world in something like a decade, after all, and we wanted to get you a little something to celebrate. Filius would have come down as well, I’m sure, but he was rather quite taken up with his syllabus this year; I think he’s planning on trying something a bit different with his second year Valentine’s classes.”

Harry felt oddly touched; that was incredibly kind of them. Even though Harry absolutely adored Hedwig, Hagrid certainly hadn’t had an obligation to get him anything for his birthday, not when he was used to not getting anything from the Dursleys – but he’d also been living with the man for the last week and been in his company for practically all of that time. Getting a gift from him was much more understandable than it was from two of his future teachers. “You didn’t have to–”

“Nonsense,” Professor McGonagall sniffed, as if there was no other option, so Harry’s mouth snapped right back shut. “However, we will be leaving you and Hagrid to have your birthday dinner by yourselves, as the headmaster will be having the annual Head of House meeting in the Great Hall tonight, due to him being out of the country for the next two weeks starting tomorrow. So–”

“Does that mean I can open them now?” Did he sound too enthusiastic about that? He felt like that came out way too loud. At the amused look the professors exchanged, and the bark of laughter Hagrid let out, Harry sheepishly cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. Hedwig shifted on her perch in his hair and cooed quietly, and he felt himself relaxing. “Um, I mean–”

“Be our guest, Mr. Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, and Harry kept himself from vibrating out of his skin in excitement by reaching for the closest box, which happened to be Professor Sprout’s, and unwrapped it.

“’Chocolate Froakie’?” Harry read off the blue and gold packaging that was revealed, furrowing his eyebrows and looking up inquisitively.

Professor Sprout was beaming, while Professor McGonagall looked resignedly amused. “I give one to all of my Hufflepuffs come Yuletime! Figured your birthday was a good a time as any to introduce you to magical sweets, especially if you’re not going to be sorted into my house come September.”

“It’s a froakie made of chocolate, small enough to fit in the palm of your hand and enchanted to move,” Professor McGonagall explained. “It’s one of the most popular sweets in the magical world.”

“They come with collector’s cards, too!” Hagrid exclaimed, readjusting his grip on Fang, who seemed to have gotten sick of struggling and was now just hanging limply. Harry had a feeling he’d be asleep soon. “All sorts a famous witches ‘n wizards, y’see. Hundreds a people’ve got themselves a collection goin’.”

“You are not to open it until after you’ve eaten for the night, however,” Professor McGonagall insisted. “It will ruin your appetite.”

“I understand, professor. Thank you!” When Professor Sprout and Simon both nodded to show they accepted his thanks, Harry set the five-sided box to the side with a conciliatory pat, and picked up Professor McGonagall’s gift instead. Inside the box that was under the paper was an odd leather harness.

He cocked his head as he studied it, and felt Hedwig lean down over his forehead for a closer look, but Professor McGonagall spoke up before he could ask what it was; “That, Mr. Potter, is a wand harness. It straps to your forearm, so your wand will always be in easy reach, and won’t be able to fall out of your pocket or be stolen out of your bag.”

“That’s brilliant! Thanks, professor!” That made Professor McGonagall stand up a little straighter, and Annaise roll her eyes, but he meant it, and immediately slipped it onto his right forearm, where it tightened itself.

“We will be taking our leave now, Mr. Potter, Hagrid,” she then said, inclining her head in acknowledgment along with Annaise to both of them in turn. Harry waved when Professor Sprout and Simon did, and, after Hagrid exchanged his own goodbyes with the teachers (making plans for another spot of tea together with Professor Sprout next week), they were left alone in the hut once more.

“Well that was some surprise, eh, Harry? Right kind of ‘em t’bring yeh some gifts,” Hagrid said, finally setting Fang back down on the foot of his bed. The granbull flopped onto his side and started to snore almost immediately, and Harry hid his giggles behind his hand, hearing Hedwig chirp with laughter as Hagrid sighed and shook his head. “Ruddy mutt,” he grumbled fondly, turning back around. “Ah well. ‘Spect Posey’ll be poppin’ in any minute now, best be preparin’ fer whatever she’s cooked up, eh?”

As it was, Posey did indeed pop in less than a minute later, laden with several platters that smelled utterly delicious – platters that had Fang awake in moments, and scrabbling for a taste. Posey was able to hold him back with some kind of invisible force field, though she did look at his desperate panting with something like annoyed amusement as Hagrid dragged him back by his scruff again before she set the platters on their tiny table, out of his reach. “Posey will be back with dessert once sirs are finished,” she told them in her squeaky voice, and apparated away.

Dinner was scrumptious as always, and wonderfully filling, but Harry always had room for treacle tart, and managed to finish even that after his earlier two portions of hearty food. He’d shared some with Hedwig, as well, but she didn’t seem to like it as much as he did, since her beak almost seemed to glue itself shut after three bites, and she’d refused to give it another try. (That was alright with Harry; it just left more for him.)

Sitting back in his chair with Hedwig nested, once again, in his hair, Harry was full, warm, and sleepy. He was content.

It was certainly the best birthday he'd ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: swellow is my favorite flying type! which is why I made hedwig a taillow lmao


End file.
